The Thieves of Legend

by Richard Doetsch

  The elevator rose toward the thirty-fourth floor. Pam’s heart began to race as if she were a teenager anticipating her first dance.

  When the doors opened, she reached down and picked up her small bag, and as she stood she saw him. Everything she had heard, everything Isaac had said, was in the eyes of the man before her. Dressed head-to-toe in black, he looked as if the man she loved had been possessed. She knew they were twins, but to her, they couldn’t be more different. He was truly evil personified.

  She didn’t scream, didn’t feel fear. The only emotion that rose in her was anger, for this was the man who had clouded Isaac’s heart, who consumed him, who was responsible for all the pain in his life.

  As he snatched her from the elevator, covering her mouth with his black leather glove, he whispered in her ear. “So nice to meet you, Pamela.”

  And as he dragged her down the hall into a vacant suite, his powerful arms lifting her in the air, she feared for Isaac, for she knew she was now a pawn in the escalating battle between the two brothers.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE FORBIDDEN CITY

  The rain was heavy, falling in large drops whipped by intermittent winds into spinning sheets that danced along the vast outer courtyard of the Forbidden City. KC was already soaked through; the black hat that covered her long blond hair was plastered to her head.

  She was thankful for the rainstorm, as it limited not only vision but hearing. It would impede the guards’ overall awareness, offering KC a slight advantage if she was spotted. Second, the rain reduced the guards’ diligence; she knew their focus would be dulled by the fact that criminals were rarely active in bad weather.

  They had entered from the east near the Gate of Eastern Glory. Slipping under the bridge span, crawling along its undercarriage over the moat, they arose on the far side.

  It was the area of deepest shadow, out of the line of sight of any roadway or distant building. The enormous turreted guard tower to their south posed no threat, unmanned since the days of the emperors; there was no need for guards in the high structure, as no one would be attacking a museum.

  KC removed the coil of rope from her shoulder, reached into her satchel, pulled out the grappling hook, and affixed it to the end. She and Annie quickly scanned the area, and without delay, KC swung the rope around and tossed the hook to the top of the wall thirty feet above them.

  As the carbon-composite device sailed over the parapet, the four arms sprang out and caught hold within the merlons, the slotted section of the battlements.

  KC pulled tight on the rope, testing its hold, and immediately began her climb, her body angled to allow her feet traction as she pulled herself up hand over hand. The smooth outer surface was far different from the rock faces she was accustomed to climbing, with their uneven texture that made for such good footholds. She crested the top in less than ten seconds, flipping over the parapet and lying flat. Five seconds later, Annie was by her side, pulling the rope up, coiling it, and throwing it over her shoulder.

  Staying low, they ran along the twenty-foot-wide battlement for seventy-five yards, tied off the rope on a merlon, and rappelled down into the royal stable area.

  They had prepped back at the hotel. Annie had taken a rifle and two pistols; she oiled them, checked them. She affixed a weapon light, a small bright flashlight underneath the barrel of the rifle so she could see what she was shooting at. She handed KC one of the pistols, but she refused. KC hated guns and was not about to kill someone either on purpose or by accident. They had packed it all up and headed out to the palace, getting dropped off in a nearby neighborhood before approaching the bridge.

  Once in the stable area, they split up.

  KC hugged the wall of a small storage building, looking out over the vast open space before her. In the dark shadows of night, the buildings along the perimeter of the wide-open space took on the appearance of a mystical dream; fading in and out of vision with the driving rain, their red walls appearing to bleed as water cascaded down the façades. The sound of the droplets against the ground and the yellow-tiled roofs, strung together, sounding like the rasping breath of a dying animal.

  There were eight guards on patrol—two pairs, four solo—moving about in prescribed patterns, checking doors and entrance gates, following routines as they had done for months and years without incident. Dressed in green and black with sharp-brimmed hats, they carried no umbrellas against the elements and were drenched from the moment they started their late-night shifts.

  KC peered upward to see Annie lying prone upon the roof of the silk museum, the rifle tucked beneath her. It bothered her: Women were supposed to be the givers of life, not the assassins, the takers. And Annie seemed to love her job.

  KC readied herself; she purged her mind of fear and worry…

  “Okay,” Annie said through her earpiece. “Go.”

  And KC took off across the courtyard of the Imperial Palace, in the shadow of the Imperial Gate. It was more than six hundred yards: ninety seconds of being a target. She had never run harder in her life. Her long legs, pumping, barely touched the wet ground as she sprinted not only for her life but for Michael’s. And as fast as she was going, she felt as if she were running through mud, as if some force were reaching out to slow her. But the shadow of the Porcelain building was up ahead, and once that blanket of darkness was about her, her chance of survival would go up tenfold. The heavy rain pelted her face; it felt like needles. It ran up her nose, into her mouth and eyes, playing havoc with her senses. She kept her head down while trying to maintain awareness of any guard presence around her.

  Hitting the umbrella of shadow from the Imperial Gate, she didn’t let up until she reached the safety of the side of the Porcelain building. She pulled up, hugging the wall, her eyes darting left to right, looking for a pursuer, her ears attuned for movement above the din of rain, for voices, for anything, hoping it wasn’t masked by the weather.

  “Clear,” KC finally whispered. She turned back and watched Annie slide to the ground, watched as Annie ran the long distance through the shadows on the far side of the courtyard and disappeared behind the Shan building, only to see her alight upon its roof seconds later. The glint of her scope caught KC’s eyes as she scanned the area.

  “Okay.” Annie’s voice filled her earpiece. “Hold. You’ve got two guards on your three o’clock, walking between the two buildings.”

  KC hated military-speak. She looked right and crouched low, her body blending with the shadows of the steps and rail of the Porcelain building. Her heart was racing; despite the cover of night and shadow, the cloak of rain around her, she felt as if she were under a brightly lit microscope.

  Twenty feet away, the two guards passed her by, unaware of her presence. It was five seconds. And then…

  “Go,” Annie whispered.

  KC exploded from her crouch into a full sprint in the driving rain toward the Imperial Workshop. Ten strides in, she saw the shadow as she passed the Fanlue building, and at once knew she was in trouble. In her peripheral vision she saw the man break into a run.

  She ran harder than she ever had, her heart pounding, her fear rising as the splashing footfalls behind her seemed to close in. She could hear the quick staccato breath of her pursuer. And then she could feel the clawing of his hand, his fingertips grazing her, trying to reach her, to bring her down. And she knew he would, at any moment…

  Thwap. And the patter of the man’s feet ceased as if his legs had been stolen out from underneath him. She felt a warm splatter hit the back of her neck, instantly knowing what it was. The sudden silence as his body went airborne ended with a crunch as he tumbled to the ground.

  KC didn’t look back as she continued to run—

  “Stop,” Annie said through her earpiece.

  KC pulled up.

  “You’ve got to get the body out of the open, hide it.”

  KC ran back to the guard, to find him in a twisted pile on the ground. The right side of his head missing. She refused to
reach back and wipe what she knew was his blood off her neck and back. She grabbed him by the feet and dragged him into the shadow of the Tao building.

  She pulled the zip gun from her pocket, stuck it in the door, and pulled the trigger. The thin tip vibrated, slipping the pins, and within seconds the lock released and she opened the door. She grabbed the guard by the feet and couldn’t help noticing the shine on his shoes, the perfect double-knot laces. He was a meticulous man, proud of his appearance. She immediately felt shame at his death. He was just a guard, someone who was protecting his culture, someone who dealt with pickpockets and rowdy tourists, never expecting to die in the line of work as a museum guard. As she dragged his body into the supply shed, she could see the ring on his finger and cursed Annie. She cursed her for what she was doing, for how easily she had killed this innocent man.

  “Close the door,” Annie said. “Quickly.

  KC could hear the sound of footsteps splashing on the soaked ground. She reached out and gently closed the door; holding the handle until the door was silently shut, she slowly released the knob, allowing it to latch. She ducked below the window and attuned her hearing. She could hear the guard just outside as he slowly walked by, could hear the way the sound of the falling rain changed with his moving presence. He passed the window, passed the door, the sounds of his footfalls finally fading as he continued.

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “All right,” KC whispered into her mike. “Are we clear?”

  But there was no response.

  “Annie?”

  Again there was nothing.

  And the sound of footsteps returned, coming closer.

  “Annie? Is he coming back?”

  The footsteps stopped before the door, the handle slowly turned, and the door opened.

  A Chinese security guard stood there. KC’s breath caught in her throat until she saw his arms were held out. Annie stood behind him, drenched, her black hair plastered to her face, her rifle slung over her back as she jammed her pistol against the base of the guard’s skull. She shoved him into the dark room and looked at the body on the floor, inspecting her handiwork.

  “Are you proud of that?” KC snarled. “Did you have to kill him? You weren’t aiming to wound, you took the kill shot without hesitation.”

  “And saved your life,” Annie said. She turned and yelled at the Chinese guard in her grasp, “Xia guì!”

  The guard knelt before her, interlacing his fingers upon his head. She placed the gun to the side of his head and—

  “No,” KC shouted at her, grabbing the barrel of the gun.

  “What do you think, this is a game?”

  “You can’t kill this man,” KC said as she looked at the wedding band on the man’s finger.

  “We’ve—no. You’ve got one shot at this, so don’t be preaching to me. What I do is for the greater good, for my country, for the colonel. What about you? You’re nothing but a thief, stealing from others, from the innocent.”

  KC didn’t answer; she knew that wasn’t the case. She resented Annie’s self-righteous words. It was one thing to justify stealing to survive; it was another to take a man’s life when you could have merely shot him in the leg.

  Annie looked down at the guard and finally smashed her gun against his head, knocking him to the ground. She reached into her bag, withdrew some zip ties, trussed his wrists and ankles, and mumbled, “This is such a bad idea.”

  KC ignored her as she reached into her satchel and pulled out a long-haired brown wig. She removed her wet hat, pulled up her hair, and put on the wig, tucking her errant blond strands in. It was a red herring but it would do.

  Annie crouched and took the unconscious guard’s radio. “At least I’ll know when the shit hits the fan.”

  She turned to the dead guard, removed his radio and crushed it under her boot, then tore the blood-covered tie from his neck and stuffed it in the unconscious guard’s mouth. “Timetable was just cut in half. They’ll be looking for these guys when they don’t check in.

  “Know this,” Annie continued. “I let that man live against my better judgment. If you don’t want anyone else to die, you pull this job off as planned.”

  KC didn’t answer as they slipped out the door. They looked left and right, north and south. Annie broke into a run and dove into the shadows fifty yards up the way. Seconds later she was atop the roof, rifle tucked to her shoulder.

  “Go,” Annie said through KC’s earpiece.

  And KC exploded out into the pouring rain.

  CHAPTER 34

  THE VENETIAN

  While activity had died down at 2:00 a.m. within the walls of the Venetian, compared to most places in this world, it seemed like New Year’s Eve. Tables were still three-quarters full, more than two thousand slot machines were singing, and the bars and restaurants were still serving. These were the diehards, the ones who took the gambling more seriously, the ones who didn’t arrive at the Venetian for the shows, concerts, and food.

  The staff was alert with smiles and nods of accommodation as if it were ten in the morning: waitresses with drinks, croupiers with their welcoming patter, wandering concierges observing and anticipating the needs of their patrons. New carts of chips were wheeled out every twenty minutes, ensuring the flow of money never ceased.

  Carl greeted Jon and led him, Michael, and Busch past the guards into the staging area he had brought them to earlier. It was Carl’s last night, his last task. He had already cleared his accounts, packed, and would be boarding his flight to the Philippines at 6:00 a.m. with the hundred-thousand-euro payment already wired to his account.

  The three were dressed in suits, pin-striped, high-end. Each carried a briefcase and a computer shoulder bag, looking as if they were preparing for a Wall Street battle or courtroom war. Around their necks were laminated IDs on black lanyards that precleared them past the guards and allowed them access to the Sublevel Two clerical offices.

  There was nothing of value there. It was where the least-exciting aspects of casino life occurred, where the administration, HR, and business accounting functions took place. There were midlevel executive offices with fish tanks instead of windows, a large corral of cubicles for support staff, along with several conference rooms used for discretionary meetings when executives didn’t want to be seen in the more elaborate facilities on the third floor.

  As they stepped into the elevator cab, Michael looked about the space, its large size and rich appointments. He nodded to the guard with the highly conspicuous gun on his belt; the six-foot-three man didn’t return the gesture, maintaining his focus. He reached forward, hitting the button for 2, their trip prearranged by Carl, and the cab started its descent. Busch looked at Michael, with that “point of no return” cocked-head glance. But in his own mind, Michael had reached that moment when he’d learned they had KC.

  As the four exited the elevator, Michael nodded again to the large guard, but the man just stared ahead as the doors closed.

  They stepped into the middle of a well-appointed long hallway. The decor matched that of the hotel above. There were offices with open doors, all dark for the night. The fragrance from fresh flowers filled the air. Two cameras faced the elevators, with additional ones at either end of the far halls.

  The three followed Carl to a conference room that was adjacent to the elevator bank. A large mahogany table surrounded by eighteen chairs was in the center, an oversized flat-panel TV on one wall, and a small bar on the far wall. Bottles of American scotch, Russian vodka, French wine, and Chinese huangjiu and baijiu, with appropriate crystal glasses, covered the mahogany counter. A humidor with a selection of Cuban cigars lay adjacent to a tiger-etched silver cigarette lighter and books of Venetian matches.

  There were modems, speakerphones, and various outlets scattered about the space that provided the communication one would need to conduct a business meeting.

  Busch opened the humidor and removed a cigar.

  “Put that back,” Michael said.<
br />
  “They’re for smoking.”

  “Not for you.”

  “Right, Mom, whatever you say.”

  Busch reached into the humidor, took three more, and tucked them in his pocket.

  Michael had laid out his plan, explaining the precise timing, the no-room-for-failure approach. He detailed how he would overcome various security hurdles, but there were certain things he could not overcome due to their timetable. And that was where he was forced to rely on Jon, someone who could influence personnel, buy loyalty. Jon had told him he would take care of that and that Michael was not to worry. But Michael worried. He hated relying on others. And he didn’t trust Jon.

  Jon had procured Michael’s supplies. Nothing was missing, and in many cases he had gotten duplicates, something Michael would have done if he had been doing the shopping himself. Michael had to remind himself that Jon was military-trained, efficient, focused, with a nothing-is-impossible approach. An approach Michael knew he and Paul would have to extricate themselves from if they were to survive to save KC.

  Carl spoke in quick, hushed tones to Jon, all in Chinese, and quickly left.

  Jon’s briefcase was large, accordioned, designed for accountants transporting a large amount of work. He laid it upon the table and opened the top to reveal the edges of papers and files that stretched the case to nearly twelve inches in width. He reached in and lifted off what was a false top; the papers and files protruded from a false sleeve that concealed three pairs of sneakers, two guns, and three coils of rope.

  Jon and Busch stripped off their suits, revealing tight-fitting jumpsuits, slipped on the sneakers, and slapped digital watches on their wrists.

  Michael removed the false top from his briefcase and withdrew a satchel, shaking it out. He gathered a variety of handmade precision tools from the case and slipped them into the satchel.

  He grabbed the book-sized black box from his briefcase and walked out into the hall, past the elevator hall camera, out of its line of sight. He uncoiled a black plug, plugged it into a nearby outlet, and affixed the box to the wall. It took fifteen minutes for the power soak to charge.