Thief by Greg Curtis Page A

the fame might well give away his novel revenue collection methods. Spreading his donations across hundreds of charities had helped a lot for the first few years, but now the funds were so large that even individual daily donations were significant amounts, while all the while the number of extra charities he could contribute to were reducing.
     
    In time he realized with shock, he’d saturated the market.
     
    In desperation he’d created new identities, Sheiks and Princes with more money than brains, and each in existence only for the few short months needed to distribute the hundreds of millions he had to get rid of. Each new identity had had a shorter and shorter life, as the taxman started spotting them more and more quickly. They sensed escaping revenue faster than a hawk, and tracked it better than a bloodhound. If it weren’t for the Swiss banking system and a thousand capable lawyers, he would have been in a huge pickle.
     
    Then only a few short years ago, he’d hit on a new scheme, blackmail. Though not blackmail in the usual meaning. He might be a criminal, but it had finally dawned on him that he was also an international economic power. By then he was donating more in charity than any other nation on Earth. That had to count for something.
     
    Assuming the persona of Screaming Lord Byron; he’d always liked David Bowie, he’d called off many of the dogs through their countries’ leaders. In any democracy the political cost of stopping a multi billion dollar charity would be too high, while at the same time the moneys for the charities would still have to be found elsewhere, and the war on drugs fought with ever more of the countries’ own resources. Surprisingly many leaders were pragmatic when they saw the costs of catching him. Life was still a risk, but not quite in the same way it had been before.
     
    Now at forty seven, Mikel was a spectacularly accomplished thief, an academic and athlete, a martial arts expert and saboteur, a multi billion dollar per year charity and champion in the fight against crime.  He was also, he found, rather lonely. It was only the truth. He’d found quickly that while there was a huge freedom in being completely outside every system of law and ethics known to man, in being able to do nearly anything he set his mind to the price for it was terrible loneliness. In all his days, he’d never found a love to compare with Samantha, and even to her he’d never admitted his true nature, choosing instead to live for the moment, and simply love. In retrospect it had been a mistake, one he could never correct.
     
    As he spoke, Mikel found himself in the position of a dying catholic in the confessional, and he spilled everything as though from a burst dam. In nearly forty years, he’d never told a soul what he admitted to her and the relief at finally letting all his secrets out to another was immense. But he had no fear. Deep down he knew that whatever else she had in mind for him, Sherial had no intention of sending him to the slammer.
     
    More over there was something in the way she listened, that said she understood him, even if she didn’t agree with everything he’d done. And that grudging acceptance was more precious than all the money in the world.
     
    “And your family?” As always he sensed what she said rather than heard it.
     
    “I tracked them down later, much later. Always wanting to know why they hadn’t come for me when Aunt Mabel had died. I suppose I was bitter, angry. Still am a bit. But the truth was anything but what I’d imagined, and there was too much water under the bridge to repair things.”
     
    “Turns out dear old Aunt Mabel told them she’d put me in a local monastery after I’d been so evil. Apparently I’d been stealing, getting into fights, and nearly killed some poor boy in a brawl.” Even after all these years there was still an echo of bitterness in his voice. He could forgive his family, for what they hadn’t known, but