The Fifth Extraction (eBook)

An International Heist Triller

Henri Kemal (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
246 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
9780000814661 (ISBN)

Infos

Five legendary gems. One elite team. Zero second chances.

    When the final extraction is set in motion, a team of international thieves must navigate betrayals, surveillance, and shifting alliances. Every step closer to the last gem puts them further from safety-and closer to a truth none of them are prepared to face.</p>

    The Fifth Extraction</em> is a high-stakes heist thriller that races across borders and through shadows. For fans of sleek, cinematic crime stories, this novel delivers a relentless pulse of danger, deception, and the cost of ambition.

Textauszug

Chapter 1: The Man In The White Suit & The Gem That Vanished At Auction

Late January 2010. Rain hadn’t stopped all day.

That night, the National Archives Building glowed faintly in the damp breath of Jakarta’s fog. Inside, chandeliers shimmered above marble soaked in centuries of decisions, secrets, and ceremony. The air smelled of vintage perfume, money, and anticipation. This wasn’t just another gala—it was a battlefield dressed in silk.

In one corner, still and almost too perfectly placed, stood a man in an ivory-white suit. He leaned against the wall like a painting that refused to be framed. No one knew who he was, but everyone noticed.

He called himself “Harvin” that night—a Swiss-based art mogul with galleries in Lucerne and Jakarta. An aficionado of Southeast Asian heritage.

But beneath the name, beneath the tailored charm, lived a ghost: Leonardo Ardian.

His name didn’t show up in databases. No mugshot. No fingerprints. Just whispers traded between black-market dealers and museum guards during night shifts. He wasn’t a thief.

He was a rumor that robbed the world blind.

Tonight, he wore a mask and played a part.

“The Fire Dove Ruby will be Lot Number Nine,” the auctioneer announced, voice sharp as a scalpel.

Leon lifted his champagne glass with slow ease. Beneath his glove, a 1956 Vacheron Constantin ticked without missing a beat. He wasn’t looking at the stage. He was looking at time.

Three. Two. One.

A soft click. Unheard by most. A pulse jammed the CCTV for exactly six seconds. That was all he needed.

He lowered his gaze—and saw her.

Dr. Sekar Maheswari stood like a shard of obsidian near the platform. Black kebaya. Sharp posture. Colder eyes.

Their eyes met. She frowned slightly—not out of offense, but analysis. Was he rich? Reckless? Or something else?

Leon gave a slight nod. Cordial. Distant. Then turned.

The ruby arrived under velvet: deep red, the size of a nutmeg seed. Rumored to belong to the last queen of the Bone Sultanate, lost in a fire that erased a dynasty.

Sekar had vetted the gem herself. As guest curator, her reputation was on the line. And yet, her gut whispered something she couldn’t name.

Leon stepped closer. No sound.

“May I take a closer look before the bidding starts?” he asked, voice low.

Sekar turned. “Guests aren’t allowed to touch the pieces before the session ends.”

“Looking isn’t touching,” he said lightly. “And looking… isn’t stealing. Right?”

She hesitated. Not because of what he said—but how he said it.

Leon bowed slightly and stepped away. On the side table, he left a slip of paper. One line:

What matters is not the object in the glass, but the reflection of the one who sees it.

The auction began.

Thirty billion. Sixty-two. Eighty.

“One hundred seventy billion rupiah for Mr. Harvin!”

Heads turned. Leon raised his paddle like he was ordering wine. Unbothered. Unreadable.

And just before the gavel dropped—

The lights went out.

Two seconds.

When they returned, the gem was gone.

Gasps. Screams. Security scrambled. CCTV? Static.

Leonardo Ardian had vanished.

All that remained was a champagne glass, a folded cloth, and a note Sekar reread under her breath:

What matters is not the object in the glass, but the reflection of the one who sees it.

This wasn’t theft. It was an announcement.

Chaos cracked across the room. Commands barked. Glass broke. The marble echoed with panic.

Sekar stood frozen, hand gripping her dress. The display case was empty, glowing in its own absence.

“Lock all exits! Now!” someone yelled.

Doors sealed with a mechanical hiss.

But what Sekar heard louder than orders was silence. The kind of silence left behind by someone who never intended to stay.

She looked down. The note trembled slightly in her hand. Same sentence. Same handwriting—calm. Precise.

“Ms. Sekar?”

She turned.

A woman stood before her. Gray Armani suit. Pulled-back hair. Clean, sharp gaze.

“Nadya Wiratama. Interpol.” She showed her badge. “I’ve been monitoring this auction all week.”

Sekar frowned. “Interpol? In Jakarta?”

“This missing gem isn’t just a piece of art. There’s a long-standing mystery behind it,” Nadya said. “And now the thief has your attention, doesn’t he?”

Her tone was edged. Almost amused.

“I’m just a curator,” Sekar replied. “And yes… I saw the man. But I don’t know who he is.”

“He’s not just any man. His name is Leonardo Ardian. Different aliases. Same result. Always the same message.”

 

Nadya pulled out her phone and showed photo documentation: a museum in Paris, an art gallery in Lisbon, a private auction in Tokyo. At each scene, the same pattern—missing artwork, no trace, and always a handwritten quote left behind.

“The poet thief,” Sekar murmured.

“A gentleman thief,” Nadya corrected. “And this time, he didn’t just steal. He performed. He stood in front of hundreds of witnesses, bought the gem, and vanished. That wasn’t theft. That was theater.”

Sekar stared at her. “Then why didn’t you stop him?”

Nadya didn’t answer. Her jaw tightened just slightly. Maybe it was irritation. Maybe regret. Or maybe… respect.

The doors swung open. Local forensics filed in, quiet and sharp. Plainclothes officers spread out like ink on paper. Cameras flashed. Whispers bloomed. The scent of scandal was stronger than perfume.

Down one of the service corridors, far from the noise, a man slipped a folded ivory-white suit into a slim briefcase. Now in a loose shirt and casual trousers, he could’ve been anyone. A waiter heading home.

Leonardo Ardian didn’t run. He walked.

Past metal racks. Past kitchen crates. Past blind corners he’d already memorized.

He exited through a side gate—unseen, untouched, unhindered.

He knew when Nadya would notice the blind spot in the footage. And he knew Sekar would keep that note. She wouldn’t throw it away.

What matters is not the object in the glass, but the reflection of the one who sees it.

The gem was never the goal.

What he really took was rarer: attention. Two brilliant minds—now fixed on him.

The rain hadn’t let up when Leon stepped into a dull, dented car. Parked near the northern curve of Jalan Gajah Mada. From the outside, forgettable. Inside, restructured, rewired, perfectly nondescript.

In the backseat: a leather satchel. Inside it: the Fire Dove Ruby, resting like nothing had happened.

Leon adjusted the mirror. No tails. No eyes. Just silence.

From his coat, he pulled out a photo. Faded. Torn at the corner. Two young men, laughing like fools in front of the National Gallery.

Him and Bara.

“If you see this, Bara,” he muttered, “you’ll know. The game’s back.”

The engine started. No rush. Interpol would chase ghosts. Nadya would read shadows. But none of them could rewrite the truth:

Every great heist begins with an old wound.

 

Elsewhere, in a windowless room lit by monitor glow, Nadya watched the security footage. What she saw wasn’t absence.

It was intent.

“He’s challenging you,” said one of the agents.

“No,” Nadya replied. “He’s challenging the system.”

But in her voice: something cracked. Something small. Something human.

 

Sekar stood alone in the security room. Onscreen: Leon’s photo. Clean face. Crooked smile. Dangerous calm.

“Leonardo Ardian,” she whispered.

The name echoed like déjà vu. She didn’t know why he felt familiar. But the unease didn’t feel new. It felt old—like something left behind, now returned.

And deep down, she knew: the ruby would surface again. Not in a case. Not for a price. Somewhere meaningful.

Somewhere chosen.

 

Jakarta’s morning arrived like an apology. Grey skies. Slick roads. Horns returning to rhythm. The city moved on. But some people couldn’t.

Sekar sat in a Jalan Sabang café. White blouse. Coffee untouched. Her screen glowed:

FIRE DOVE RUBY VANISHES – MYSTERY AT PRESTIGIOUS AUCTION

There she was, frozen in pixels, beside Nadya and the empty stage. Comment sections buzzed—crime rings, sabotage, hidden elites.

She barely blinked.

Ping.

Inbox: An Invitation to Beauty.

Message:

There are things museums and laws can’t explain. If you want to understand what ‘stolen beauty’ really means, come to—

Old archive room, Taman Prasasti Museum. 10:00 PM. Come alone. Don’t report this. Bring curiosity.

Sekar didn’t flinch. She saved the email.
Not as evidence.

As a promise.

 

South Jakarta. Interpol field office.

Nadya stood before the board. Strings. Photos. Patterns. At the center: Leon. Nearby, a new addition—Sekar.

“She’s not one of them,” said a junior agent.

“No,” Nadya said. “But she’s inside the game now.”

“Leon never hurts people. He makes them feel something. That’s worse.”

“Has he ever failed?”

Nadya didn’t answer.

She looked at his photo. Touched it with one finger.

Then turned.

On the screen: a flagged log. Anonymous email. Encrypted. Metadata pointing near Tanah Abang. Subject line:

An Invitation to Art

“Taman Prasasti...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 22.5.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-13: 9780000814661 / 9780000814661