The Thieves of Legend

by Richard Doetsch

  “Turn on the light,” Busch said quickly.

  It was a moment before Michael flipped on his flashlight, smiling broadly at Busch’s fear.

  “That’s not funny,” Busch snapped at him.

  “It’s funny on so many levels,” Simon said to Michael.

  Before them was a set of marble stairs, brass railings on either side. An earthy smell filled the air. On the wall was a marble plaque, carved with the names of the deceased, their dates of birth and death.

  Simon led the way down into the earth, where they found a room twice the size of the structure above. In the center of the room were two benches, along the far wall was a small altar, a long leather kneeler before a crucifix. Upon the altar table were dozens of pictures, some aged, sepia-toned, of men and women in their prime, portraits to remind the grieving of their deceased relatives in better days. Candles abounded, while dead flowers lay crumbled upon the bases of glass vases.

  Simon looked at his PDA, at the scan of the three sheets of paper, before finally looking back up at the right wall. Built into the left and right walls were individual crypts, twenty three-by-three endcaps per side, all but three of which were engraved with the names of those within.

  Simon counted over and laid his hand upon Maurice Denola—Born 1932, Died 1961.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Busch said.

  Simon pointed at the white concrete grouting. “Does that look like it was done fifty years ago?”

  Simon slipped the crowbar into the marble seam and pushed, but it didn’t budge. He tried again but it was useless.

  “Give me that,” Busch said. “God forgive me.”

  And he leaned on the bar with all of his 230 pounds, all of his six-foot-four frame’s muscle. He struggled, flexing, tugging, his face going crimson with effort until the seam finally popped, the cover loosening.

  Simon grabbed hold of the cover and lowered it to the ground to reveal the coffin. Aside from a layer of dust, it seemed brand-new. Simon grabbed the end and Busch and Michael helped him slide it out, placing the seven-foot coffin on the ground of the crypt.

  “This is wrong on so many levels,” Busch said as he looked upon the coffin. “What if he’s in there?”

  “Why? You afraid he’s going to wake up and bite you?” Simon teased.

  Simon grabbed hold of the coffin’s lid.

  “Don’t you want to bless yourself, say a prayer? After all, this is part of your job description.”

  “Believe me,” Simon said. “What I have been doing the last ten years isn’t part of anyone’s job description, especially a priest’s.”

  Busch held his breath in anticipation as Simon lifted the lid to reveal a white silk interior. But there was no body, just a wooden box, three feet long, made of haphazard scraps of wood cobbled together. Simon lifted the hinged top and peered inside.

  “Thank God,” Busch said.

  “Well?” Michael said.

  “I need someplace to examine this,” Simon said.

  “I’ve got the perfect place,” Michael said. “It’s the last place they would expect us to go.”

  MICHAEL, BUSCH, AND Simon stood in the center of the safe house on the second floor of the brothel. Busch’s eyes were glued to the monitors, which showed images of the front, rear, and secret basement door in and out of the bordello.

  Michael had duped the key; the code was an easy crack. After all, they’d left him in here for countless hours. In point of fact, Michael hadn’t dragged Busch and Simon there to hide. If he had any hope of finding KC in the Forbidden City, in Beijing, he needed a way to track her. She had no cell phone, no means of communication. But he knew the next best thing. Sometimes to track the untraceable you had to look for their escort. Michael had seen the file on Annie, had studied it, learning everything about her that he could, which was minimal at best. But he was sure she had a cell phone, and if she did, tracking it was child’s play.

  Simon removed the lid of the three-foot wooden box and looked into it.

  “My God,” Simon said as he reached in and pulled out a scabbarded sword, slowly unsheathing it from its black enameled case. It was truly exquisite, the blade etched in Japanese symbols and phrases.

  “Do you know what this is?” Simon asked.

  Michael shook his head.

  “This sword is the legendary Japanese sword Kusanagi, more revered and mystical than Excalibur, only this one is real, not myth or legend. It’s a revered artifact, part of the Imperial Regalia, the three sacred Treasures of Japan. It hasn’t been seen in years, stolen from the Atsuta Shrine decades ago.”

  Simon continued digging, pulling out a katana, a jade fertility idol from Thailand, and a Shiva statue. “Recognize this?” Simon asked Michael.

  Michael smiled as Simon laid the Topkapi Dagger on the table.

  These items were valued at hundreds of millions of dollars, some would say priceless, all revered symbols of their countries and religions. But what Michael focused on was the last object in the box, as if it were the last present to be opened at Christmas.

  It was wrapped in a maroon velvet bag, a golden drawstring holding it closed.

  Simon removed it, placed it on the table, and unwound the tie, pulling out a six-inch-thick leather-bound book.

  “Guys, time is at a premium here.” Busch’s eyes remained fixed on the monitors. “Michael, quit wasting time. We can look at the book later. You need to find whatever it is you need so we can get out of here with a chance of a future.”

  The book was exquisite, embossed with a ferocious giant tiger, fangs bared, in battle against a five-clawed dragon. The rendering was lifelike, seeming to jump out of the leather binding. Chinese lettering appeared along the side, and clouds and symbols filled the background.

  Simon ran his fingers over the leather of the book, created more than a half-millennium earlier, marveling at the knowledge rumored to be contained within. It was like finding the Dead Sea Scrolls, the combined journals of history’s greatest explorers, a warrior’s diary of diplomacy and war, a codex of magic and science.

  Simon flipped open the leather-bound book, each page a work of art in its own right. There were elegant writings, the Chinese characters graceful, sweeping, mysterious to those who did not speak the language. Artwork adorned most pages, in different styles, as if different artists had assisted in telling Zheng He’s life.

  There was a portrait of a large man, barrel-chested and strong, robust and handsome, with fierce eyes, dressed in a long, flowing white robe stitched with gold. He wore a long black cape and clutched a fearsome sword in his left hand.

  “Admiral Zheng He was China’s greatest explorer,” Simon said. “Conqueror, diplomat, trader—he fit so many bills. He was a Muslim, a eunuch, a warrior, he was the greatest adventurer in Chinese history, yet few people outside China could tell you who he is.

  “Zheng was born Ma He, a Muslim Mongol captured in his youth and placed in the household of Ming Dynasty prince Zhu Di. His name was changed to San Bao, which means Three Jewels. He grew to be a mighty soldier and one of Prince Zhu Di’s closest friends and advisors. In 1402, when the prince staged a coup deposing his predecessor, San Bao was at his side. Zhu Di, now the emperor, christened his closest friend Zheng He.

  “Zhu Di, known as the Yongle Emperor, the Son of Heaven, in an attempt to restore China’s golden age of the Tang Dynasty, chopped down the forests of Annam—what is now north Vietnam—and built hundreds of massive treasure ships, making his friend Zheng He the admiral in charge.

  “When we think of explorers, we think of Columbus, James Cook, Magellan, Marco Polo, but they all pale next to this man. His armada of giant junks was far larger than any of the fleets Columbus commanded, and that was one hundred years later. Zheng He’s ships were five times longer, much faster, and more seaworthy. He had more than three hundred oceangoing vessels, and a crew of nearly thirty thousand men.

  “Described collectively as swimming dragons, the ships had as many as nine mas
ts apiece, with the largest ship holding one thousand people. They carried soldiers, doctors, cooks, interpreters, astrologers, traders, and holy men; there were equine ships for horses, repair ships, ships carrying gifts for tribute to other nations, water ships carrying a month’s worth of fresh water. The senior captains were eunuchs. The expeditions covered nearly 186,000 miles—that’s seven and a half times around the world. And remember, this was six hundred years ago.

  “It was one of the greatest fleets ever assembled, rivaling the Spanish Armada and Japan’s Pacific fleet. Zheng He’s personal ship was a technological marvel, at 425 feet long and 190 feet wide. With nine masts, it was the largest wooden ship not only at the time but ever since. We’re talking aircraft-carrier size.”

  “Who discovered America?” Simon asked abruptly.

  “What?” Michael asked, entirely confused.

  “Who was the first person to land his ships on North American soil?”

  “Columbus landed in the Caribbean; is this some kind of trick question?”

  “No trick… and you are wrong. Admiral Zheng He landed on the northwest coast of North America in the 1420s. He made seven historic voyages to far-off lands: Asia, India, the Middle East, Africa, the Americas. In his travels, he exacted tribute, bringing kings, sultans, and emperors to their knees. He opened up trade routes that brought Chinese porcelain, silk, and culture to the world. He brought giraffes, apes, camels, and elephants home to China; some say he brought back the unicorns of Chinese mythology.

  “From India he brought back spices and precious jewels, riches beyond compare, silks and skins procured in trade, precious metals and stones stolen in midnight raids from villages that dared to attack his mighty fleet. There was food, wines the like of which the emperor had never tasted. And a coterie of people willingly returned with the admiral, men and women of all shapes, sizes, and colors, who wished to learn of China and its ways.

  “During his journey a rebellious crew led by a sinewy, powerful man by the name of Shin Fin had seized one of his ships, killing its captain, attacking two other ships in the fleet before fleeing. But Zheng and thirty of his fastest ships recaptured the vessel during a storm in the South China Sea.

  “But instead of killing the mutinous crew as an example, Zheng gave Shin Fin and his crew the opportunity for forgiveness, for redemption, if they could complete the simple task of surviving five days at sea.

  “Snapping off the rudder of the ship, taking all of the oars and sails, Zheng left them adrift in the South China sea. He had the ship’s hold filled with food, water, and supplies, bade farewell to Shin Fin, and told the crew they just needed to survive for five days.

  “Zheng pulled his fleet back to the horizon on all sides and for five days they watched. The activity aboard the ship never waned, all aboard moved about their daily duties, the ship’s deck covered in activity throughout the daylight hours. At night, the torches, lanterns, and firepots glowed, their flames alive until dawn. The routine never changed; the days remained clear without rain or heavy seas. But it was on the night of the fifth day that it all changed. The glow of the torches snuffed out less than an hour after sundown; there was no glow from the lanterns, from the cooking fires. At dawn of the sixth day, Zheng confirmed his suspicions of lifelessness and sought a volunteer.

  “Ruin Bai hailed from the southern tip of Korea. He was the most fearsome of warriors and led Zheng’s men on numerous excursions into unknown jungles and territories, successfully defending against and repelling attack too many times to count. When Zheng asked for a volunteer to face certain death, it was Bai who stood and demanded the assignment.

  “Before he left, Zheng gave him a sip of fluid drawn from a red carafe wrapped in leather, embossed with the picture of a large majestic bird.

  “Rowing alone across the five-mile distance, Bai boarded the ship and found everyone dead, their bodies contorted in agony, covered in sores, red pustules tinted with blackness. Their faces were locked in grim expressions of fear as if they had all been struck down at once by a force from hell.

  “For five days Bai stayed upon the ship. He disposed of the bodies, weighing them down with cannon shot, tossing them over the side to sink to the depths of the sea. Bai remained onboard the ghost ship; he ate and drank from the supplies he had brought with him, clearing his mind, praying to pass the time.

  “On the fifth night, he went to sleep with every expectation of awakening in heaven. But with the sunrise of the sixth day, he smiled, for despite his doubts, he awoke to a new morning, overjoyed to find a new day ahead. For ten days he did so, each night expecting to die, each morning surprised to be alive.

  “Bai signaled Zheng, and within hours, men scampered about the ship, making her seaworthy again, hoisting the multibatten sail.

  “For his bravery, for facing death without fear, Bai was rewarded with something he did not think could be awarded by man, not even as great a man as his admiral. Bai was blessed with life, long life, far more years, it is said, than any man of that era. He was said to have lived far beyond one hundred years, but looked half his age. Bai finally disappeared when rumors circulated that he was possessed, that he was a demon. Something that only he and Zheng knew couldn’t be further from the truth.

  “For Bai and Zheng knew that there were two objects, out of legend, stolen from an island temple in the heart of a southern ocean. An island they had found and referred to as Penglai. That was where they had stolen the two liquids from.

  “The first was called the Dragon’s Breath. Its power had been confirmed; the tiniest of amounts mixed with the crew’s food had killed them all.

  “But Zheng did not just find death on the island, he had also found life, a way to counter the Dragon’s Breath. He called it the Phoenix Tears after Fenghuang, the Chinese Phoenix that brought balance to the Dragon’s Breath. It was a countermeasure to the darkness, but it did not just counteract the Dragon’s Breath, it was an elixir that was rumored to cure disease, heal wounds, stop death.”

  Simon stopped his story and turned to the book, becoming lost in the text as he sought the details beyond his knowledge, his fascination blinding him to the others, who were waiting on his next words. He read through the book, turning pages, nodding his head. The book was much thicker than he had expected, hundreds of pages long, with fold-out leafs. There were descriptions of battles both on land and at sea, of diplomacy, of trade, of medicines and magic.

  He kept flipping pages, fighting the temptation to read it all. And he finally arrived at what he was looking for. It folded out three times; its exacting detail exceeded his hopes. The map included all the continents, the Horn of Africa, the Middle East, the Red Sea, the Persian Gulf; there was North and South America, irrefutable evidence that the rumors of Zheng He’s discovery of the continents nearly one hundred years before Columbus arrived in the Caribbean were true.

  And on the opposite page was a near masterpiece of a painting depicting a mountainous volcanic island, bathed in lush green foliage, encased in a white sandy beach; an island that floated on the ocean mist, a river flowing out of a rain forest jungle, emptying into the ocean.

  Simon read the captions beneath the painting; he studied the map and finally looked up.

  “Well?” Busch prodded him.

  “This is it, this is the map to what Zheng He thought of as Penglai. It describes it in detail. A mountainous island located in the middle of nowhere, a paradise, a place of unnatural beauty. Billions of spectacular flowers, trees made of coral that bear luminous pearls. The dew of eternal life flows from the rivers imparting immortality to those who are worthy.”

  “Eternal life my ass,” Busch said. “You know how stupid you sound—”

  “This book speaks of magic and legends,” Simon cut him off, ignoring him, “of the riches Zheng He brought there and the treasure that was there upon his arrival. It speaks of the origin of the Dragon’s Breath and the Phoenix Tears, and how they are born of the island and not to be removed.”

>   “Bullshit,” Busch said. “There is no cure-all, no elixir of life, no legends and magic—”

  “Hey, I’m just quoting,” Simon said, “not verifying. But remember this, a lightbulb in the middle ages, your computer or phone to people in the age of the Renaissance would be considered magic, miracles of God, or perhaps the devil. One man’s magic is another man’s science.

  “It’s interesting: It describes the island as surrounded by a great undersea dragon that will pull the unworthy to their death, a guardian placed there by the gods.”

  “Great,” Busch said. “Magic, legends, and dragons.”

  “You’re forgetting treasure. Gold and jewels, untold wealth.”

  “KC is sick,” Michael said abruptly, “I know it, I could see it in her face. And Lucas infected her somehow. It’s all tied to that island.”

  “Michael, you can’t tell me you believe—” Busch began before being cut off.

  “If KC is sick, if she has been poisoned with something from that island, and a cure is there,” Michael said, “I’ll believe in anything.”

  “Shit,” Busch said as he looked at the monitors. A man stood at each of the entrances to the brothel. All of them were heavily tattooed and dressed in black. And through the main door came Lucas, Jon, and three more Triad members.

  “Dammit,” Busch said. “I told you we should have left—”

  Simon held up his hand, silencing Busch. He ran his finger over the edge of the map, following the perimeter, and became focused. He carried the book to the copier and Xeroxed the map and the island painting.

  “What are you doing? We don’t have time,” Busch said as he watched the monitors. Lucas remained in the lobby as Jon came up the stairs with three large men, pistols in their hands. Busch looked at the doors of the brothel, each of them blocked by a gang member. “My taxpayers’ dollars aren’t supposed to go toward funding assholes like this to kill me.”

  Busch looked at the window, rapping on it. The bars were thick; the glass was bulletproof. “This is just great. What the hell are you doing?” he said to Simon.