The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  The Thieves of Heaven

  Michael St. Pierre [1]

  Richard Doetsch

  Dell (2001)

  * * *

  Rating: ★★★☆☆

  Tags: Fiction, Suspense, 小说

  Fictionttt Suspensettt 小说ttt

  * * *

  The most closely Guarded treasure on Earth.

  An explosive ancient secret.

  A breakneck journey into the heart of the Vatican.

  In a small, heavily fortified room just north of the Sistine Chapel, a master thief is about to strike. All he needs is an instant–to steal the most important treasure in the Vatican museum: two antique keys–one gold, one silver–that protect the secret of salvation….

  But a surprise awaits Michael St. Pierre deep inside the Vatican, an ancient secret so explosive, it sends him running for his life—from the streets of Rome to a small stone church in Israel—with two stolen keys and a terrible realization: the consequences of his desperate, brazen act are far greater than he could ever have imagined.

  For the treasure he has uncovered—the gleaming prize buried within the most clandestine structure on earth—is about to bring him face-to-face with an enemy more shocking, frightening, and insidious than anyone can guess....

  ### From Publishers Weekly

  Michael St. Pierre is a retired master thief taking on one last score—knocking over the Vatican—in Doetsch's first novel, an effective papal thriller. When his beloved wife, Mary, is diagnosed with ovarian cancer, Michael reluctantly agrees to a burglary for a mysterious German businessman, August Finster. Finster will pay all of Mary's medical expenses if Michael steals a set of keys, one gold and one silver, from the Vatican. Michael pulls off the job, but naturally there's more to it than a simple robbery: Finster has sinister plans for the keys, which hold the power to keep humanity out of heaven forever. With the help of Michael's cop buddy and a Vatican priest, Michael must steal the keys back from Finster and return them to Rome. Doetsch wisely keeps the supernatural elements to a minimum, putting the focus on his characters and fusing horror and international thriller while avoiding the usual suspects (no Knights of the Templar here). Though some plot elements don't hold to close scrutiny (one paranormal character is omnipotent only when it's convenient to the plot), Doetsch's debut is an enjoyable and suspenseful read. *(May)*

  Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

  ### Review

  "Devilishly fun and enjoyable—more than that, a thriller rich with inspiration, passion, cleverness, and intelligence told by a superbly gifted writer. A highly ambitious novel, and one that delivers on every count."—Brian Haig *The President's Assasin

  *

  "An effective papal thriller.... an enjoyable and suspenseful read."—*Publishers Weekly

  *

  "At the heart of this spectacular thriller is a classic love story. Michael St. Pierre will literally move heaven and earth to save the woman he loves."—Stephen Frey, author of *The Chairman*

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Nighttime NYC

  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

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  For Virginia,

  My best friend

  I love you with all my heart.

  There is a comfort to love that only those that truly know it feel. It is warm and secure, free of anger and jealousy. It is euphoric and renders one immune to life’s cruelty. It is filled with never-ending hope, undying appreciation, and true selflessness. It is the rarest of gifts.

  Acknowledgments

  It is my distinct pleasure to thank the following people:

  Gene and Wanda Sgarlata, without whose friendship and assistance you wouldn’t be reading these words; Irwyn Applebaum, for opening the door and giving me this opportunity; Nita Taublib, for closing the deal and making my dream a reality; Kate Miciak, for your unending patience, guidance, and confidence; Joel Gotler, for doing the impossible; Maria Faillace and everyone at Fox 2000, for creating the initial excitement.

  And above all, Cynthia Manson. Thank you for your innovative thinking, unending faith in the face of adversity, and true friendship.

  Thank you to my family: Richard for your curiosity, wit, and strength; Marguerite for your humor, your heart, and your beauty; Isabelle for your smile, your laugh, and your innocence. Most important, thank you, Virginia, for putting up with my 3:00 a.m. workaholic ways. You are my inspiration, my laughter, my joy; you are the reason for everything good in my life.

  Finally, to you, the reader, thank you for taking the time to read The Thieves of Heaven. In this day and age where people choose their entertainment in two-hour movies, half-hour sitcoms, and three-minute videos it is nice to know there are still individuals who choose to read and let the story play out in their imagination.

  Richard

  Nighttime NYC

  Michael St. Pierre flipped the Steiner night vision monocular down over his left eye, loosened his grip on the rope, and continued his descent from the fifteenth floor. The darkened alley, now rendered green, was his landing site. He was careful not to look toward the big city lights in the distance; he couldn’t afford blindness at this moment in his life. The alley below was clear except for a few bags of garbage and a couple of rats on their nocturnal prowl. A thirty-yard jog across the street would put him over the ten-foot granite wall into the nighttime safety of Central Park. He stayed in the shadows of the buildings around him. He wasn’t worried about getting caught: the hard part was over and this particular corner of the world was deserted.

  He was sixty feet from touchdown when out of his left eye—the enhanced one—he caught a glimpse of flesh. Soft, naked flesh. It was in the adjacent building, a town house, fifth floor. The dark, nobody-home, adjacent building sitting just off Fifth Avenue. He swore he could make out a breast. He averted his eye; he wasn’t a Peeping Tom. But it was a nice sight. A stone’s throw away. He never would have known, but for the night vision. He wasn’t worried, though: she couldn’t see him, of this, Michael was sure.

  He continued his descent through the hot sticky night.

  But, like a siren, the vision pulled him back, if only for a second. Yes, it was a breast. Two, in fact. Well proportioned above a trim waist, the whole scene bathed in green. God, he did love the view up here. The woman lay on her back. He couldn’t really make out her face but it was an exceptional body. He watched as it writhed
in passion. Think of the job, he reminded himself, fighting the momentary lust.

  He released his guideline, continuing his descent. He had invested too many hours to risk it all now over stolen glances at unsuspecting lovers. He would be home in no time flat if he stuck to the plan, safe in the embrace of his bride, who was far more alluring than this woman before him. Though she did possess a body like none he had ever laid eyes upon.

  Without warning, as if reading his thoughts, the woman’s head snapped left toward the window. Michael froze, holding fast to the line, not a sound, not a breath. Had she seen him? Impossible. He was dressed for concealment; the area around him couldn’t be darker.

  And then his insides turned to water.

  She wasn’t looking at him. She couldn’t. Her eyes were covered with a dark cloth; in her mouth was a ball gag. The twisting of her body was not passion but terror. He looked harder. She was bound spread-eagled to a table and she was in pain. A sudden rage filled him as he saw a figure poised at her side; the man’s face was obscured but the gun in his hand was not. This wasn’t a game: the woman was being taken against her will. And it was all happening less than twenty feet away from him.

  He looked down. Only fifty feet to go. Freedom. He felt the small pouch on his back shift its weight. Six months of planning for that pouch; it was his future. He wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers. This was no time to be a hero.

  But she was still there, the green hue of the nightscope painting her skin, her body straining against its bonds. Michael didn’t need to hear to know she was screaming behind the gag in her mouth.

  Summertime on the Upper East Side. Most had abandoned the city for the Hamptons, for Greenwich, for their little piece of what they called the country; their apartments left dark and dusty until September. The kings and queens abandoned their castles for greener pastures and fresher air, leaving behind Silicon Alley fiefdoms and Wall Street empires. It was a concentration of wealth unlike any in the world, all encased behind thirty blocks of limestone facades and hulking Irish doormen.

  The imposing embassy was originally the home and offices of J. S. Vandervelde, an oil baron whose empire rivaled those of Getty, Rockefeller, and Carnegie. The Akbiquestan government bought the building in the early seventies not for her ornate beauty but for her impenetrable exterior structure: walls three feet thick, massive doors, bulletproof windowpanes. The Vanderveldes had known their place in the world: they knew their enemies better than they knew their family and so had their home designed accordingly. Johan Sebastian Vandervelde had constructed his fortress—eight floors of mansion, seven floors of office—in 1915, moving his family uptown from their Greenwich Village home on Fourth Street. Running afoul of his workers had grown commonplace with Johan Sebastian and there was a price to be paid. It just wouldn’t be paid in blood on his own doorstep.

  The Akbiquestans also knew their place in the world and knew they needed a bunker more than an office building. They had upgraded Vandervelde’s former home since moving in, plumbing, electric, heating, and security. The only way in was through the front door, if you were willing to endure guards, scanners, guns, and the like.

  But people tend to think in two dimensions, not three. An assault from above was never considered a threat, even when the Akbiquestan ambassador was in residence. The roof was outfitted only with standard alarms on the roof doors, windows, and skylights.

  It had taken six months of planning. Michael knew every corner of the building better than its longest resident. The Landmark Preservation Commission had been extremely accommodating in providing full plans and specs on the property. When they heard he was writing a book on the history of the most famous avenue in the world, they dropped everything they were doing to assist the nice young man in the Ralph Lauren suit. Not only did they provide info on the building in question, but on each of the adjacent structures. Forbes Carlton Smyth—Michael chose the alias for its implied pedigree—assured every commissioner he would receive an acknowledgment for his assistance. The building’s American security system was easily identified and access codes were purchased from the manufacturer for a nominal fee, as U.S. sentiment didn’t run deep for the Akbiques.

  Like every good businessman, Michael was thorough in his work, dotting every i and crossing every t. He was every bit the professional. No stone left unturned in his planning, no detail overlooked in his research. Every foreseeable scenario was played out and provisioned for. But unlike other businesses his was a firm of one. No R&D staff, no secretarial pool, no VP of human resources. Michael always worked alone; in an untrusting field, you can’t be the trusting kind. Always performing below-the-radar lifts: governments, criminals, the over-insured. Nothing could or would ever point to him. Always in and out in minutes, never a mistake, never a trace, never a clue, and, most importantly, never caught.

  The embassy was down-staffed now that the United Nations was on hiatus. Two guards on duty per shift, a handful of daytime secretaries, and that was it. Everyone else had returned home to enjoy the mountainous desert land they represented.

  The ambassador, Anwar Sri Ruskot, was a well-respected general who excelled at diplomacy, but that talent ran a distant fourth to his greatest skills. General Ruskot was well-known in the black markets as a top courier, fence, and merchant specializing in the movement of antiques, jewelry, and paintings, all the while hiding behind his diplomatic credentials. As far as the general was concerned, the diplomatic pouch was an invention greater than electricity, the light bulb, and women combined. Rumors of his activities ran rampant in law enforcement circles but the FBI and Interpol were powerless. If they shook the tree, the State Department would have a major crisis on their hands that could swiftly escalate to bloodshed between the not-exactly-friendly countries.

  When General Ruskot was in town, he ran his enterprise from the fifteenth floor of the embassy, well out of reach of his guards, councilors, secretaries, and busybodies. His office was on the top floor, where only he was allowed. Ruskot claimed that it was here he conducted his country’s most sensitive dealings and that if those dealings were to be prematurely exposed, the impact would be catastrophic to world diplomacy. Nobody ever entered fifteen, under any circumstance.

  Michael was the first to see the ambassador’s true operation. He hung in the middle of the room on a Kevlar wire, five feet off the ground, shining a small penlight. The study was large, a cross between a gentleman’s library and an opium den. A massive masculine desk surrounded by high-back red leather chairs was positioned against the rear wall, while on the opposite end was a nomadic sitting area of thick deep pillows centered around a hookah, its stale opiate smell still clinging to the air. Among the host of Eastern antiques and master paintings, Turkish rugs and tapestries, there were ledgers, files, and computers detailing each shady transaction, each illicit payment, every underhanded deal. While most of the criminal element was discreet about record-keeping, that was a worry Ruskot would never have: the general wasn’t on American soil, this was pure Akbiquestan ground protected by the Vienna Convention.

  Michael had entered the alley shortly after midnight to begin his ascent. The four-story boutique sat just off Madison Avenue, its granite-block face a climber’s dream. On his back he carried several lengths of thin kernmantle rope; at his waist, carabiners, clamps, and a tool kit—all taped to avoid jingling. From the shadowed alley he began his climb, his fingers clinging to the impossibly narrow lips between the building’s granite blocks. As if out for a stroll, he scaled the boutique in seconds, then cut across the roof and headed up the adjacent eight-story apartment house. Possessing the style and strength of a master, he moved building to building toward Fifth Avenue, rising higher in the city as he went. Michael loved climbing buildings more than rocks. They possessed a greater challenge, a greater sense of accomplishment for him. He’d gotten hooked on man-made facades back in college: the Towers dormitory was his first Mount Everest. He had worked his way up to the twenty-second floor of the dorm
, slipped in and out of a student teacher’s window without so much as a sound; all for want of a test paper. The adventure didn’t have the payoff he was hoping for—the girl he stole it for had still failed the exam.

  Michael descended to the Akbiquestan Embassy roof from the adjacent eighteen-story condo. The skylight, installed in ’68, was alarmed but easily defeated through a few choice splices. He removed the glass, looked about the dark room through his monocular, then lowered himself down. Hell of an apartment, hell of an art collection. Michael had studied the plans like a playbook and could easily redraw them blindfolded; he knew every inch of the place long before he set foot inside.

  Through his various sources he was aware of a considerable amount of uncut diamonds on the premises and his contacts were proven correct when the six-foot-high 1908 Wells Fargo safe swung open under his knowledgeable fingers. There were diamonds, all right. He unfurled the black velvet jewelry roll and there they sat like stars against a night sky, winking and sparkling up at him. Enough to fill a cookie jar. Thirty million black market, untraceable dollars. What made the job even sweeter was no one would ever report these diamonds missing. They were surely stolen, illegally insured, their existence known to only a select few. The ambassador would never send out an alarm. Too many questions would be raised as to their origin. Under no circumstance was anyone entering the fifteenth-floor suite to inspect the scene of this crime. No police, no investigation, no problem.

  At the same moment as the safe door swung open, Cpl. Javier Samaha was growing restless at his post by the embassy door. The guards had drawn lots to see who would rotate home and Samaha had gotten the proverbial short straw. The monotony of twelve-hour shifts was making his feet throb and his head ache. It was a quiet night, a Thursday, and nothing, as usual, was happening. Besides eating, reading, and cards, there wasn’t much else to do. Despite all the fears of being a stranger in a hostile land, there had never been an incident at the embassy or against any of his countrymen. Samaha thought the ambassador’s paranoia unfounded and the man’s precautions over the top. This was the twenty-first century, the age of tolerance, and the embassy sat in the most diverse, liberal city in the world. Besides, it was the middle of the summer, all the radicals and college kids were on vacation, nobody was going to stage even a protest until at least September. Samaha turned to the desk officer and told him he was going to make his rounds early, he needed to stretch his legs and clear his head. He usually started on the second floor and worked his way up, but exercising what little authority he possessed, tonight he decided to start at the top.