The Thieves of Legend

by Richard Doetsch

  Picking up a fork and knife, KC took a bite, finding the chicken dish far better than anything she would have encountered on the commercial flight.

  “What time are you expected?” Annie asked.

  “Expected?”

  “Aren’t you meeting your sister?”

  “No. Yes.” KC shook her head. “It’s a last-minute trip. I’ll go to my place in the country after we land, and then I’ll call my sister from there. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure until we took off if I’d change my mind and stay in New York.”

  “So you were really running away from something rather than running to someone?” Annie said sympathetically.

  KC pursed her lips, “I’m having a moment of life-confusion.”

  “As long as you’re not on a tight schedule, I’ve been thinking I might ask you something.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “How would you feel about joining me on a little side trip? Someplace really special.”

  KC looked at Annie, unsure of what she was suggesting.

  “Look, I know we’ve known each other for all of five hours, but I really think it would be fun. I don’t have many friends. None, actually,” Annie said, with no sense of self-pity. “But I completely understand if you need to get somewhere and can’t take the time.”

  “I’m listening,” KC said, growing a bit wary of Annie.

  “It will only put you off by a day. What’s one more day, when your sister doesn’t even know you’re coming? Think of it as a girls’ trip. You look like you could use a bit of fun, a distraction.”

  “Where would this distraction be found?” As much as KC wanted to go home and see how it felt to be away from Michael, she had never been on a girls’ trip, never really had a close friend for that matter. She trusted only three people in her life: Cynthia, Simon, and Michael. Maybe a little spur-of-the-moment jaunt with a new friend would clear her head, help her see the world from a new perspective.

  “I have one hour of business to take care of and twenty-three to have fun. We can get right back on the plane tomorrow and I’ll drop you off in London.”

  “Where?” KC asked, trying to mask her curiosity.

  “One of the most amazing places I’ve ever seen. Have you ever been to Granada?”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Good morning, Mr. St. Pierre,” said the guard standing at the gate leading to the private jet terminal of Westchester Airport.

  From his car, Michael stared up at the man, who was dressed in a blue blazer and gray slacks.

  “Feel free to park in any of the available spots.” The man pointed at the small, empty parking lot to his right. “Your plane is ready for departure. Almost everyone is on board. I’ve been told you are awaiting one more passenger who should be arriving any minute now.”

  Acknowledging the man with a curt nod, Michael drove through the gates and parked. Stepping from his Suburban, he turned and looked at the jet waiting on the tarmac. The white Boeing Business Jet was not what he had expected to see; he’d assumed his trip would be spent huddled in some noisy, oversized C-130 transport, not the luxury jet that sat before him. Michael knew the jet well, very well in fact, as it was a near duplicate of the one his father owned. The thirty-five-million-dollar plane was a luxury office in the sky, the sort of thing used by CEOs, billionaires, and Hollywood big shots.

  He shook his head as he pondered the amount of government waste before him, a luxury jet shepherding military personnel. He couldn’t stop thinking how much body armor could be purchased for $35 million.

  “So much for slumming it,” Busch said as he got out of the passenger seat and walked around to Michael, grabbing their carry-on bags. Michael always traveled light, preferring to gather any supplies he would need at his destination. Busch was different; he liked to be prepared and had a tendency to grab everything he thought he could possibly need—but not this time. He had told Jeannie that KC had walked out on Michael and he needed to take him away for some guy time, some golf, and maybe a little time to think. He’d grabbed two handfuls of clothes, tossed them in a bag, and headed outside.

  After he’d thrown the bag in Michael’s car, he’d turned and wrapped Jeannie in his large arms and kissed her. Finally pulling back and looking in her eyes, he said, “This is not about having fun.” And as Jeannie looked at him, Busch knew that she knew. Seeing the look on Michael’s face as he stared out the car window, she knew this wasn’t about golf, it wasn’t about cheering Michael up. It was something dangerous.

  Paul had run off with Michael for “golf” before and they’d returned not with golf tans and stories but with banged-up bodies and sunken, tired eyes.

  “Good luck,” she said as she kissed him back. “Don’t overstay your welcome. We’ve got the kids’ award banquet next Saturday.”

  “I know. I won’t miss it.”

  “And Paul, be careful on the back nine. That always seems to give you guys the most trouble.”

  MICHAEL WALKED UP the gangway, his eyes darting around the airport, wondering if this would be the last time he’d set foot not only in New York but in the entire United States. Busch walked in front of him as if he were a blocking tackle prepared to knock any and all comers out of his friend’s way. Busch ducked his head under the entrance and stepped on with his left foot first: It was a habit since his first time on a plane, when his mother had told him to always lead with his best foot and it would ensure the safe flight of the plane. Busch loved his mother, though he always laughed at her superstitions: black cats, broken mirrors, and spilled salt. But despite the humor he found in her beliefs, he had always led with his left foot for more than twenty years, whether he was boarding a plane, a train, a boat, or an elevator, and had never experienced anything but smooth sailing.

  As he and Michael boarded the jet, they encountered the pilot standing in the cockpit, lost in conversation with his copilot. The uniformed men turned, glancing at their new passengers, but quickly returned to the flight check.

  The interior of the jet was large, three rows of wide leather seats seemingly more suited to some high-end screening room than to an airplane. There was a large conference table toward the middle. A door leading to the rear was closed, but Michael knew a private office and bedroom likely could be found behind it.

  “Mr. St. Pierre.” The man’s voice was deep and direct, and he spoke with a self-conscious, unnatural diction, as if fighting to overcome an accent.

  Michael nodded.

  “My name is Jon Lei.” Jon stood about five-ten, his thick arms stretching taut the fabric of the short-sleeved shirt he wore. His black hair was short, though not military length, as Michael would have expected it to be. “Please feel free to sit wherever you wish. We should be under way shortly. Our final passenger is running late.”

  Michael stared at him, waiting for him to continue. The moment dragged on into a noticeably tense situation.

  “We will continue this one-way discussion once we are airborne,” Jon said as he turned away and walked through the back door, closing it behind him.

  Michael recognized him. He had seen his new traveling companion yesterday, a face in the crowd as Michael lay on the sidewalk, holding the kid who’d stolen Annie’s purse. The faces of the onlookers had been burned into his memory. Like a bunch of rubberneckers, they’d all stared, murmuring about Michael’s heroics, but then had cowered in fear and shock or fled as Annie shot the man. This man had blended in with the rest, looking much like any other New Yorker. His features were refined, a mix of Asian cultures; he had a strong jaw and cheeks, but it was the pair of cold, dark eyes that dominated his face and made it so memorable. Only now Michael realized the man hadn’t just been a witness, but an accomplice.

  Michael took the window seat, stretching out.

  “Our stewardess seems like a real charmer,” Busch said as he collapsed his six-foot-four frame into the seat beside him. “I can’t believe Simon’s not here. And he hasn’t called back yet?”

  “I l
eft him three messages, sent him the video of KC, and an email about where we’re heading. I don’t need to hear back from him to know that he will be doing everything in his power to help us.”

  “This is still his fault. Remember, you don’t thank the guy who got you in trouble for getting you out of trouble.”

  Michael glared at Busch.

  “I’m just saying.” Busch settled back in his chair. “So who are we waiting for?”

  As he said the words, a white van drove onto the tarmac and came right up to the side of the jet. Two men exited the van, ran around to the rear, and opened the double-panel doors, pulling out a long box. Two sets of wheels snapped into place below what Michael now saw was a dark, highly polished seven-foot-long rectangular case. Michael watched as they wheeled it toward the plane, the side-cargo door was lowered, and the case was slid inside the belly of the aircraft.

  “Is that the passenger we’ve been waiting for?” Busch asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Michael said as he watched the coffin disappear into the plane.

  THE BOEING BUSINESS Jet tore down the runway, thrusting its passengers back into their seats until it finally leaped into the early-morning sky. Michael stared out as the world fell away and they climbed higher and higher. The jet circled once over Byram Hills and then headed north. They had an eighteen-hour flight ahead of them, and they would have to top off their tanks in Alaska before crossing the Pacific and riding the Asian coast down toward Hong Kong.

  Michael’s mind was spinning, and he realized it hadn’t stopped spinning since he had left for Italy. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope he’d found on his dining room table—the letter KC had written when her wounds were fresh. What she had written was from her heart, and it had crushed him when he read it the first time. He slid the single piece of notepaper from the envelope and began reading.

  Dearest Michael,

  I love you with all of my heart, with all of my being. The comfort you have given me, the home you have provided is like nothing I have ever known.

  And so it is with a heavy heart I write this letter. I can barely see through the tears in my eyes. For I know you are afraid of marriage, of recommitting, of being honest with me.

  But I, too, have decisions to make—time is fleeting at best, life is short. I long for children, and the security of a committed heart. I would give you my life, I would give you children, but I fear giving you things you do not want.

  Please do not follow me; I need time to clear my head, to think about life, to plan a future.

  Please know that I have never been in love before now, never felt so deeply about anything or anyone as I do about you.

  I will love you always and forever,

  KC

  Michael read the letter twice through, a complex mix of emotions on the verge of overwhelming him.

  Jon emerged from the rear of the jet, carrying several rolls of paper, which he dropped onto the conference table. Thankful for the distraction, Michael tucked the letter back in his breast pocket, rose from his seat, and went to the conference table.

  Jon unrolled a set of architectural plans, anchoring the corners with four heavy crystal glasses. The structure it depicted was enormous, bigger than any building Michael had ever seen.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Busch asked as he looked over the plans.

  “Not in the least.” Jon stepped back, allowing them to examine the design in greater detail.

  They were looking at an entire city under one roof. There were man-made rivers and canals, a village square replete with shops, restaurants, and theaters, towers that climbed forty stories into the sky, subterranean levels that descended ten stories. The legend alongside the plan indicated that the structure contained ten million square feet. It was part palace, part pleasure dome, equal parts urban dream and nightmare. But to the richest people in the world it was known as the Venetian Casino Macau, the largest, richest casino in the world.

  “You have three days to formulate and execute your plan.”

  “Three days? Lucas said five.”

  “Three days to execute, five until it’s too late, five until he has KC Ryan killed.”

  Busch exploded, grabbing Jon and slamming him against the wall. “Listen to me, you little shit. If she is so much as scratched, I’ll reach down your throat and tear out your lungs.”

  Jon stared at Busch, unfazed, offering no resistance. “Kill me and she will be dead in minutes, I assure you.”

  Busch glared at him, his body trembling with rage, finally releasing him in utter frustration. Michael put a hand on his friend’s back, as if to calm him, then turned to Jon.

  “I’m going into an unfamiliar world, facing not only language but cultural barriers. I know nothing of this structure, nothing of the goal, and you expect me to somehow pull this off due to the sheer force of my desire to save my girlfriend?”

  “I understand she left you,” Jon said.

  “How the hell would you know that?”

  “The same way we know everything about you; information not only rules the world, it’s what allows us to rule you.” Jon paused, in total control of the moment. “So, Michael, is KC worth saving?”

  Jon reached for another set of plans and rolled them out on the conference table, too. “What we want is kept underground, deep underground. These plans will allow you to familiarize yourself with the various sublevels, but your main focus is the lowest level, where there is a safe containing a simple box, just waiting for you to liberate it.” Jon paused. “You tell me what you require and I will get it. I have many different resources to draw from.”

  Michael glared at him. He hated relying on others; his survival had always been predicated on counting on no one but himself. Although he had allowed Busch and Simon into his inner circle, he wasn’t going to expand it to include this man.

  “And don’t worry about the culture or the language,” Jon continued. “That’s why I’m your partner in this.”

  “Not a chance,” Michael said. “I don’t know you, and I certainly don’t trust you.”

  “Why not?”

  “That coffin in the belly of the plane. That’s the man I chased down Park Avenue yesterday. He was one of your men, wasn’t he?”

  Jon nodded.

  “You stood by as he was murdered. You watched Annie shoot him.” Michael paused as he put the pieces together. “He had no idea what you and Annie had planned for him.”

  Busch watched as Michael’s anger ratcheted up.

  “Once you get your box, once we’ve served our purpose, you’re going to kill us, just like you killed your purse-snatching partner.”

  “You are gaijin,” Jon said. “Wàiguó rén.”

  Michael shook his head, not comprehending.

  “You’re a foreigner about to steal from a culture you don’t understand. So you need me. And yes, I might kill you, but I can promise you this: You’ll survive far longer with me than attempting this alone. You are stealing from some of the deadliest people in the world.”

  “What people?”

  “A group who will not only kill you and your friend here, but who will reach into your life and kill everyone you have ever cared about, all in retaliation for the crime you are going to commit against them. So, yes, you need me. We will work together on this or I will kill you right now and then I will call Annie and she will end the life of this woman you claim to love.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The house sat on the outskirts of Granada, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas, whose mountainous beauty stretched to the horizon.

  Annie drove the Peugeot up a long, twisting road while KC looked out over the ancient city sprawled out below her, watching as it slowly came to life in the early-morning sun. The city was a sea of white, its buildings an amalgam of influences and cultures. Here, in the last Muslim city on the Iberian peninsula to fall to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, Moorish, Catholic, and Castilian strands merged to create a singular place, a m
edieval metropolis of sandstone churches, basilicas, and cathedrals, yet home to more ancient Muslim structures than the rest of Europe combined. Dotted with tall, thin evergreen and fragrant olive trees, it was truly a city that felt more like a lost fragment of the past than a part of the modern world.

  As they crested the uppermost hill of the three-mile-long road, KC saw a single residence at the road’s end sitting in splendid isolation with a commanding view of the city below.

  What Annie had described to KC as a house was, in fact, a grand estate. Tall, imposing walls stretched as far as KC could see from either side of an iron-gated entrance. Annie drove up to the gate, rolled down the window, and held up a white security card to the electric reader attached to the gate’s side. The black gates trembled and then smoothly swung open on silent hinges.

  As they proceeded up a long drive, KC found herself looking upon a large yet somehow serene mansion whose design brought to mind the Alhambra, the ancient Moorish fortress on the other side of the river valley. Like that legendary castle, this red stone mansion was strategically located, able to view the world from every point of the compass.

  Annie coasted into the circular drive, parking in the shade of a stand of fruit trees.

  “I shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes,” Annie said as she got out of the car.

  She rang the doorbell and was soon admitted to the house by an unseen individual. The heavy wooden door closed behind her with a thud.

  KC looked upon the enormous estate, a statement of power and extreme wealth, and wondered what she was doing here. She was determined to fight the sudden feeling of regret that she felt stirring deep inside her. She had run away, something she had never done before. Had she made a mistake in leaving Michael so suddenly?

  “KC,” Annie called out from the front door. “Come in.”

  KC rolled down the window. “What’s going on? I thought you were just going to be a few minutes.”

  “Five minutes. Please, you’ve got to see a little of his house, it’s not something many people have the chance to do,” Annie said, beckoning KC to join her.