Free Open Sesame by Tom Holt

the mark, where and when do we do the job, who does what, where do we fence the stuff afterwards? You don’t know, do you?’
    ‘So, maybe I don’t,’ Zulfiqar admitted. ‘All I’m saying is, we do this for a living, we should be able to work these things out from first principles. Like, where’s the best place to look for a lot of rich geezers?’
    Mental cogs ground painfully. ‘Well,’ suggested Shamir, ‘what about the Wazir’s palace? Always a lot of wealthy toffs hanging around there.’
    There was a chorus of Right-ons and Go-for-its, until someone pointed out that the palace was also the Guard headquarters, and known criminals who set foot within the precincts tended to end up with a marvellous view of the nearby countryside from the top of the City gate. All right, suggested another thief, what about doing over some of the shops in the Goldsmith’s Quarter? That seemed like a brilliant suggestion, until Aziz remembered that three-quarters of the goldsmiths paid Akram anti-theft insurance (‘If your premium is received within seven working days, you’ll be entitled to receive this fantastic combination coffee-maker/muezzin, absolutely free’) and unfortunately, what with the Chief doing all the paperwork and keeping the books, he hadn’t a clue which ones they were.
    ‘This is pathetic,’ observed Hanif, after an embarrassed hush. ‘Do you mean to say that without the Chief, nobody’s got the faintest idea what to do?’
    Aziz nodded. ‘You only really appreciate people when they’re not there any more,’ he added sententiously.
    Hanif shot him a glance suggesting that he’d relish the opportunity to appreciate Aziz a whole lot. ‘All right, then,’ he replied, ‘so we need a leader. Let’s choose a new one. Strictly temporary,’ he added quickly, ‘until the Boss comes home. Well, how about it?’
    ‘Like who?’
    Awkward silence. It occurred to thirty-nine thieves simultaneously that (a) Hanifs suggestion was extremely sensible, and (b) whoever it was that got landed with the job of explaining how sensible it was to Akram when he returned, it wasn’t going to be him. When the topic of promotion in a bandit gang is discussed, the expression ‘dead men’s shoes’ tends to get used a lot, usually in the context of their being found in a pit of quicklime.
    ‘Well,’ said Zulfiqar, licking his dry lips, ‘there’s only one candidate, surely. I mean, who’s been Akram’s trusty right-hand man for as long as any of us can remember?’
    Denials froze on thirty-eight lips. Suddenly, everyone was looking at Aziz. ‘Who, me?’ Aziz said, taking two steps backwards. ‘Now hang on a minute …’
    ‘It’s what he’d have wanted.’
    ‘Natural choice. No question about it.’
    ‘Every confidence.’
    ‘But I’m stupid,’ Aziz protested vehemently. ‘Ask anybody. Thicko Aziz, makes two short planks look like Slimmer of the Year. You need brains to be a leader.’
    The general consensus of the meeting seemed to be that the whole point of having brains was managing not to be a leader. That way, assuming you had brains, you might get to keep them. Aziz could feel tendrils of loyalty reaching out towards him like the tentacles of a giant squid.
    ‘Let’s take a vote on it,’ said a voice at the back.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Vox populi, vox Dei.’
    A brief flurry of democracy later, Aziz was duly elected as, to quote the job description he drafted for himself, Acting Temporary Substitute Locum Caretaker Second-InCommandIn-Chief of the Thirty-Nine Thieves. There was a brief, improvised inauguration ceremony, in which the successful candidate was chased three times round a rocky outcrop, jumped on by his obedient henchmen and tied to a barrel. His henchmen then asked to know his pleasure.
    ‘I’m your new leader, right?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘So you’ve got to do what I say?’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Right. First off, elect a new bloody leader.’
    ‘Get stuffed.’
    Aziz sighed, mentally