The Thieves of Legend
Michael St. Pierre [4]
Richard Doetsch
Simon Schuster, Inc. (2011)
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Rating: ★★★★☆
Tags: Mystery, Thriller
Mysteryttt Thrillerttt
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In a world of dark and light, where East meets West, a horrific act of violence propels former thief Michael St. Pierre into a mystery that began five hundred years ago. . . .
In Richard Doetsch's next unforgettable Thieves thriller, Michael and his ex-girlfriend KC Ryan have been blackmailed by a U.S. Army colonel. They are to travel to opposite ends of China, and each is responsible for stealing a piece of an ancient puzzle: a diary and a compass. With their lives dependent on each other’s success, they must face off against the complex underworld of the Chinese triads, a twisted female assassin, and a madman whose only desire is to possess the secrets held within the pages of the diary—knowledge that would give him enormous power and lead to the downfall of nations.
Moving from the glittering casinos of Macau to its dark and dangerous backstreets; from the palace at the heart of China’s Forbidden City to the medieval castles of Spain; from the seaside mansions along the Amalfi Coast to an uncharted Pacific island, Michael is in a race against time. He has less than five days to uncover a five-hundred-year-old mystery—and to save KC from certain death.
### Review
“The tension leaps off the pages in this classic, ticking-clock thriller. Watch out. You'll grip the pages so tight your knuckles will turn white.” —Steve Berry
“Doetsch steps up his game with his fourth thriller featuring ex-thief Michael St. Pierre.... Plenty of action blends with interesting history and criminal tradecraft for a satisfying read.” (**Publishers Weekly** )
“Richard Doetsch's *The Thieves of Legend *stole my breath with the sheer audacity of its storytelling, proving yet again that this series gets better with every installment. Bold, richly told, and rollicking with adventure, here is thriller that demands to be read in one tension-wrought sitting. Count me a fan for life!” (James Rollins )
“Doetsch continues to demonstrate why he’s one of the best thriller writers in the business.... The heroes and villains are all well-rounded, and the plot twists are exceptional. Another strong entry in Doetsch’s Thieves series, following *The Thieves of Darkness* (2010). (*Booklist *(starred review)* )
### About the Author
**Richard Doetsch** is the international bestselling author of five previous thrillers, including *The Thieves of Faith*, *The Thieves of Heaven*, which is currently being developed for film by Twentieth Century Fox, *The Thieves of Darkness,* which Doetsch is co-adapting with Shane Salerno (*Armageddon*, *Hawaii Five-0*), *The 13th Hour*, which is being adapted by New Line Cinema, and *Half-Past Dawn*. He lives in New York with his family. Visit RichardDoetsch.com.
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CONTENTS
Epigraph
Prologue
Two Days Earlier
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About Richard Doetsch
For Virginia,
My best friend.
I love you with all my heart.
I did not tell half of what I saw, for I knew I would not be believed.
—MARCO POLO
Princeps legibus solutus est.
—THE PRINCE IS NOT BOUND BY THE LAW.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
—T. S. ELIOT
PROLOGUE
ITALY
The castle sat at the edge of the cliff looking out over the Tyrrhenian Sea, where dark waters blended seamlessly with the nighttime sky at the horizon. Constructed of stone, brick, and granite, the structure was built directly into the cliff face and seemed to grow out of the earth, as if it had existed for all of time.
When approached from the sea, the ancient building appeared as one with the rock, but now, in the depths of night, the glittering windows made it look more at home with the stars of the sky. Constructed in 1650 for the third Duke of Faronte, the castle had traded hands with the rise and fall of the region’s fortunes, and had been most recently purchased by a man of vast wealth who was rumored to have made his fortune in some unscrupulous dealings in the Far East.
Michael St. Pierre stood on the edge of the structure’s roof, his hand resting upon the stone battlement, feeling like a crusader who had breached the walls of Jerusalem. He took in the stars that filled the sky, the moon that had just begun its climb, the unusually heavy surf, a remnant of a forgotten storm, as it crashed like thunder against the base of the cliff face two hundred feet below.
Anchored a quarter mile from shore was an impressive ship, a 150-foot megayacht; the white Sunseeker belonged to the man whose home Michael stood upon now. He had been watching it for nearly an hour. A few hundred yards to its south, a smaller yacht had arrived about fifteen minutes ago, deploying a small tender into the rough water. Michael watched as the tender came closer and closer to the dock directly below him, and after battling the heavy waves, finally managed to secure itself. Now a group of six well-dressed men moving in single file climbed the narrow, steep stairs that had been hewn out of the rock centuries earlier. They paused several times along the way to catch their breath.
Michael clipped his harness to the rope that he had affixed to the metal scupper and threw it over the edge. It had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to scale the hundred-foot façade on the north side of the structure, bathed in shadow, hidden by the growth of forest that stretched up the coast. Due to the façade’s knobby granite and stone design, climbing it had been like climbing the face of a
mountain that had been dotted with foot- and handholds, making it one of the easier climbs he had done in the past few years. He had trekked five miles through the Italian forest, the rope on his shoulder and a small backpack of supplies giving him the appearance of a hiker. His phone was turned off. His girlfriend and Busch would be pissed if they tried to reach him and couldn’t, but the idea of being discovered here by either the people coming to the house or the two people he was closest to was too terrible to contemplate. Explaining he hadn’t actually gone to Chicago could prove to be a problem. An unfamiliar rush of guilt filled him, not for what he was about to do but for the deception he’d enacted and for the promise he had broken.
Only one person actually knew where in the world he was: his old friend Simon, who had hired him. He was probably sitting down to a nice meal in the town of Tramonti just a few miles up the Amalfi coast. Michael wasn’t sure if it was Simon’s persuasive argument that had brought him here or his own vanity and hunger for an adrenaline rush, but like an alcoholic who had lapsed, he knew deep down there would be a price to pay for giving in to temptation.
Michael pulled out a black stocking hat and pulled it down over his shock of light brown hair. He wore brown contacts over his slate-blue eyes and had rubbed his cheeks with eye black; it was a rudimentary disguise, but it would keep away the dogs if his image were caught on video.
Michael took one last look at the sea and stepped off the roof’s edge. Falling through the cool air, he silently zipped seventy-five feet down the kernmantle rope. He released his hold on the Petzl stop descender, the self-brake slowing his descent until he came to a large double window that occupied the middle of the enormous stone wall. He hung there a moment, glancing down at the crashing waves two hundred feet below, the froth luminescent. It would not be a pretty death if he fell. He removed a knife from his waistband, guided it through the window sash, and with a quick burst of force slipped the lock on the leaded-glass window.
The castle was guarded by an impressive security system. He had confirmed its presence twenty-four hours earlier with the installer, a man in Naples who was more than willing to talk shop with a fellow security professional. Michael had installed three similar systems in New York and knew that there had been no successful compromise of it to date. He also knew that the owner of the system had chosen not to incur the heavy expense of installing wiring through the stone façade that bordered the rear windows overlooking the sea; Michael understood his logic. Who would ever consider trying to scale the stone structure and risk death on the rocks below?
Michael slipped through the window into the study, a comfortable, dimly lit room with dark mahogany walls and a fire crackling in the stone hearth. A heavy antique desk filled one corner, and deep high-back wing chairs faced the blazing logs. The shelves were filled with antique books and religious artifacts. Michael recognized the painting above the mantel; it confirmed the rumors he’d heard of the castle owner’s questionable integrity and his passion for the unattainable. Picasso’s portrait of Dora Maar had sold for $23 million at auction twelve years earlier, but it had only spent one week aboard the yacht of the nouveau-riche Internet mogul who’d bought it before it had vanished in the dead of night. Michael thought of repatriating it and collecting the million-dollar reward, but that wasn’t why he was here.
He turned and locked the study’s heavy coffered door.
The security man in Naples had been forthcoming enough for Michael to hack his system and pull the security quotes for the castle. Beyond the alarms and the entrance cameras, three safes had been purchased and installed: a gun safe for the garage and two Helix 09 safes, one for the second-floor study at the rear of the small liquor closet on the far side of the room, behind a few boxes of eighteen-year-old Macallan scotch, and the second placed under the bar in the lounge of the Gentlemen’s Den. Michael didn’t know where the Gentlemen’s Den was located, though he’d heard it was a bar not far from the castle. He knew the Helix 09 safe well: its modern design, its electronic keypad. He also knew how to override the lock in the event its owner forgot the code, something that occurred with 65 percent of its purchasers.
But as Michael opened the door to the liquor closet, his heart nearly stopped. The boxes of scotch were already moved to one side, and the safe door stood wide open, its interior light reflecting off the diamond bracelets and necklaces and the precious-gemstone rings that lay in black velvet trays. There was also a Sig Sauer and a faded black-and-white photo of a child in an old wooden frame. Nothing else. No file, no envelope with a family crest upon it, no small red Chinese puzzle box. None of the things he had been told would be here.
Michael stepped back from the liquor closet. The house was utterly silent, which gave him pause. The meeting was scheduled for nine. He’d seen the men arrive; he could smell the faint odor of food being cooked.
He suddenly heard voices through the open window, some sort of a commotion outside. When he looked out, he saw the six men on the dock below surrounding a seventh man, pushing him. The man in the middle looked older than the others, his body frail, the hunch of his back attesting to his advanced years. Michael could hear his anguished cries over the sound of the crashing waves.
Against his better instincts, Michael unlocked and opened the study door. He stepped into a dark paneled hallway, the carved rails and Persian rugs giving it a baronial feel. The hallway extended for a hundred feet at least, bordered on the left side by four doorways, all closed, while the right side looked out over a vast reception hall filled with gleaming modern furniture that stood in sharp contrast to the centuries-old castle. Michael pricked up his ears, listening, but there was only silence.
He glanced about, getting his bearings, noting every possible point of exit. And as he peered over the rail, he noticed something protruding from behind the couch in the reception hall that again gave him pause. He headed down the stairs to see if his worst suspicions were true.
Michael carried no gun—he hated them—only the knife at his waist. He was skilled with it, but it possessed no magical properties; it wouldn’t protect him against anyone who might be lying in wait. He thought of the Sig Sauer he’d seen in the safe, but it was too late to go back and get it.
As he stepped onto the stone floor of the great hall, his eyes fell on the protruding foot he’d glimpsed from above, and with his next step the rest of the bodies came into view.
Bile rose in his throat, and his heart began to pound. Though he was prepared to witness death, he had not expected this. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but picture KC lying there, and it filled him with fear. And anger.
The three women he saw were of various ages, two probably in their twenties and one much older. And the child… the child was surely under five.
The gruesome sight was an affront not only to his senses but to his reason. Each of the bodies, the three women and the child, had been decapitated, their heads lying in pools of blood beside them.
TWO DAYS EARLIER
“Absolutely not,” Michael said.
“You didn’t even wait to hear what I had to ask,” Simon said, pushing his black hair back from his forehead. He stood up from the barstool, stretched out his body, still stiff from his long flight from Rome, and walked back to the pool table.
“It doesn’t matter, you know I can’t.”
Simon nodded.
They were in the upstairs lounge of Paul Busch’s restaurant and bar, Valhalla. It was Paul’s private retreat, what his wife, Jeannie, affectionately called his man cave: a bunch of beat-up oversized couches and chairs, along with a pinball machine, a pool table, and a dart board. Monday Night Football played on the oversized TV on the far wall, while Busch himself stood behind the small bar, restocking the shelves.
The restaurant, which Busch had opened three years ago after he’d retired from the Byram Hills police force, had become a huge success. It was the destination of choice for not only the residents of Byram Hills but much of Westchester County. The fo
od was typical American cuisine: steaks, fish, chicken, in generous portions, all served up by Chef Nick Mroz. Busch didn’t believe in trends or in small portions, or in catering to the whims of some nouvelle cuisine food critic. He believed in making people happy.
“And whatever you were going to ask me, don’t ask KC,” Michael added, holding up his bottle of Coca-Cola for emphasis.
Simon threw up his hands. “I’m just—”
“Don’t.”
“But—”
“This is your fault, you know.” Michael turned around on the stool, watching as Simon picked up a cue and began clearing the balls from the pool table with ease.
“My fault?” Simon said in his subtle Italian accent, keeping his focus on the table. “How is it my fault?”
“You’re the one who said KC and I would be perfect for each other.”
“And was I right?”
“Yes—no.”
“You’re still together,” Simon said, holding up one finger. “She’s actually living with you.” Finger number two went up. “And I think you love her,” he concluded as finger number three slowly extended.
“Don’t you think it’s time you bought her a ring?” Busch asked from behind the bar.
Michael looked up at Paul. “Why do I need to get married again?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Busch said in his mocking tone. “Maybe because you love her, maybe because you want kids… and maybe it’s what she wants, Michael.”
“I was married before, and we both know what happened.”
“What are you talking about?” Busch sounded genuinely puzzled. “I pretty much thought those were happy times for you.”
“Well, they didn’t last.”
“They never do,” Busch said quietly.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“Look,” Michael finally said. “You don’t think I’ve thought about it? But I can’t do it, not yet. I love her; for now that’s going to have to be enough.”
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