Michael closed the safe and stuffed the diamonds in the satchel, throwing it over his back. He took a brief moment to admire the artwork, confident that no one would be entering this restricted area, and noticed a jeweled cross in the corner. It was nine inches high and encrusted with a host of sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. He had come only for the diamonds, but the cross just screamed to him, he didn’t know why. It wasn’t in his plan and he hated deviating; he was always extremely fastidious in his work. He knew the key to success—which translated to not being caught—was to stick to the plan. But after all, this would be his last job.
He threw the cross in the bag and was out of there in 93 seconds.
The elevator door opened on fifteen. Corporal Samaha knew the restrictions but tonight curiosity had gotten the better of him. No one was around to catch him, so what harm would it do? He checked the only apartment door on the floor—the only door the guards didn’t have a key for—and, confirming that it was securely locked, headed for the fire stair, a bit disappointed. Then he turned and looked back at the carved mahogany entrance to Ruskot’s sanctuary. The corporal didn’t have much respect for the paranoid diplomat, but it was his sworn duty to protect the general and to uphold the dignity of his country. Samaha resigned himself to never knowing the truth up here and turned his thoughts to coffee. He’d opened the fire door and stepped into the stairwell when he heard a sharp click in the silence. He stopped, focused his hearing. The sound came from the apartment. He heard it again. Not as loud this time but it was definitely a click, and it wasn’t natural. He retraced his steps and checked the door: locked. He placed his ear to the polished mahogany, listening intently. He was sure he heard something. He thought of the implications, of his duty to his country; he considered the general’s violent personality and he considered the general’s violent personality again.
Throwing caution to the wind, he kicked in the door. The apartment was dark but for the light pouring in from the hall and the little bit of glow coming from the skylight. The corporal noted the roomy study was finely appointed, better by far than any other room in the embassy. A palace in the sky. He took a moment looking about. Nothing appeared out of place. He took particular notice of the large safe; pondering its use, he checked the lock. Secure. He turned to leave, deciding the sound he’d heard was probably just a settling noise from the air duct. But then he noticed the wall.
It seemed like a water stain, an outline of dust. Samaha moved in for a closer look at the wall, stepping over the pillows and casting a disparaging glance at the hookah. Though the apartment was deep in shadow, there was just enough light to make out the shading. The corporal ran his fingers along it, tracing its outline. Sunlight had, over time, discolored the wall but one single area still retained the vibrant green of its original application, a small area in the shape of a cross.
And so Michael hung fifty feet in the air with his guaranteed future in the satchel upon his back. Five stories to freedom. A tortured woman before him about to die. His bad feeling, the one in the pit of his stomach, the one that usually told him to run the other way, was almost overwhelming. But it was nothing compared to the fear he felt for the innocent victim he’d glimpsed.
He raced up the rope, hand over hand, made the hundred-foot climb in seconds, and leaped the parapet. Twenty feet away and nine floors below was the six-story town house. He scaled the adjacent condo, dug his fingers into the brick face and shimmied his way across, affixed and played out his rope, then lowered himself down.
He liked a carefully thought-out plan, always had one, always had a backup, and always had a backup to his backup. Flying by the seat of his pants was something he preferred to avoid. He was running on adrenaline and now would have to rely on instinct. He reviewed what he knew: the town house was held in a corporate name, some European textile firm, it was usually occupied by a husband, wife, and a little schnauzer, and it had a cheap and ineffective alarm system. This building had been part of his planning; it was a fallback position, he had studied it well.
Thoughts raced through his head. Where was the husband? Who was the perpetrator? Was it the husband? Was this how this couple got their rocks off? No time for questions, only facts: the woman’s body language had pleaded to God for help—she was about to die.
It really wasn’t much of a decision. Samaha explained to the desk officer that he’d heard something on fifteen and despite his orders not to enter the floor, had felt it was his sworn duty to protect his country. He explained that he checked the rest of the building and felt someone may have been prowling about the roof. Nonsense, was all the duty officer said. Samaha suggested calling the NYPD to have them do a drive-by and to keep their eyes open for anything suspicious. It was a good cover story—let the police comb the area; if the thief was still about, the cops would catch him and Samaha would be credited with quick thinking. He might even get a commendation. And if they didn’t catch anyone? General Ruskot and his wicked temper were due back in two weeks. Going AWOL in a city like New York was not that bad an alternative.
Michael entered the town house silently through the top floor window. He had no gun; he hated guns, never had a use for them and wouldn’t know what to do with one if he had it. But he did have his knife; he held it in his hand, the handle smooth, comforting to his touch, its blade reflecting shards of light off its deadly edge. He rolled it back and forth in his palm, saying a silent prayer he wouldn’t have to use it; its honed metal was unfamiliar with the suppleness of skin.
He flipped down his nightscope, painting the rear guest bedroom in its eerie green glow, then stepped in the hall. Subtle sounds of thrashing, naked skin screeching against a table, a low whine drumming behind it, combined to shiver his soul and strengthen his resolve. At the end of the hall, just outside the door, lay the schnauzer, motionless in a pool of blood. Michael inched his way down and peered into the room. It was a pottery studio: racks of drying clay pots lined a wooden shelf; various paints, thinners, and glazes on a desk; a large kiln in the corner, he could hear its exhaust fan venting intense internal heat. The smell was moist and earthy, mixed with an unnatural hint of jasmine. Scraps of dried clay littered the floor; wooden tools were strewn about, as if a whirlwind had whipped through the place. He saw the table where the work was done, where the clay was pounded and molded, cut into pieces and formed into art. But it wasn’t clay being worked tonight.
The woman was blonde, on the closing end of her thirties. A thin layer of sweat coated her body as her breasts heaved in fear. Even naked, you could tell she was of exceptional wealth, her body toned like an athlete, her face chiseled to perfection by a Park Avenue plastic surgeon. Her pedicured feet hung over the edge, tied to the legs of the table, her arms were secured above her head, a black scarf covered her eyes. The tearful moans coming from behind the ball gag chilled Michael’s heart, but at least they confirmed one thing: the woman was still alive.
Upon the windowsill was what could only be described as a nineteenth-century medical kit, a sawbones’s menagerie of crude antique surgeon’s tools: knives, scalpels, and bone saws.
He looked everywhere—there was no sign of the woman’s assailant. Ripping off his nightscope, Michael flipped on the light and raced to her side. Her skin was unmarred; whoever had done this had not yet started to work. He quickly began cutting her from her restraints. She kicked and let out a muffled shriek, unaware that Michael was her savior.
And that’s when the steamroller hit him square in the side of the head. Michael tumbled backward, dazed, losing all sense of time and reality. He glimpsed a shadow, its face obscured by a scarf, holding a sculptor’s mallet in its right hand and in its left a large gun. Michael’s head throbbed as he fought to hold on to consciousness. He never imagined death as an option when the night started, but now…Not a word was said as the cold barrel of a gun came to rest against his forehead. The madman thumbed back the hammer then paused, seeming to draw joy from prolonging the moment. Michael squeezed the hilt of his kni
fe, taking comfort in the fact that it was concealed. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he thrust his blade upward into his attacker’s wrist, buried to the hilt, the bloodied tip jutting out the back of the man’s forearm. The assailant fell backward, tumbling against the kiln. He landed shoulder-first against the twelve-hundred-degree metal as his gun skittered away. Instantly, the stench of scorched flesh filled the air.
Michael stumbled to his feet, trying to get his bearings, his head still a jumble from the brutal blow. He grabbed the table to steady himself and finally got a good look at his attacker. The man’s eyes were cold and dead as smoke rolled off his seared shoulder and blood poured from his arm, dribbling down the handle of Michael’s blade. Oblivious to the pain, the man ripped the knife from his mangled wrist and charged, jamming the knife into Michael’s shoulder, tackling him to the floor. The madman grabbed the knife handle and, like a dead pig on a hook, dragged Michael by the hilt across the room, dumping him by the kiln. With a snarl of rage, the man kicked the blade; agony shot through Michael’s body.
Teetering on the edge of blackout, a loud radio squawk startled Michael. A police monitor. It was his attacker’s. Michael could barely make out the words: “Possible robbery at the Akbiquestan Embassy, car in route.”
Michael lay there, his body heading into shock from the pain. The woman on the table shrieked a strangled scream through the gag in her mouth; she would surely be seeing death now. Michael’s thoughts ran to his wife. How would she ever understand? He pictured the police explaining his death to her; how he was found; how he was murdered. Could she please help them with their investigation? Help them to explain the stolen diamonds in the satchel on her husband’s back. Did she know the dead naked socialite? Were her husband and the woman having an affair?
Against any rational thought, Michael reached up and in one mighty pull ripped the knife free from his shoulder, the pain so intense it sucked him instantly toward darkness. He was close to blacking out when a flowing liquid shocked him back to life. The solvent ran along the floor, spreading everywhere, burning his nose, scorching his skin as it seeped into his open wound. For the first time in his life, the realization of his mortality was upon him. If he didn’t move—and now—not only would he die but so would the woman.
Standing in the doorway, the madman drew back his arm, the wick of a makeshift Molotov cocktail ablaze. Michael struggled to his feet as the man hurled the flaming bottle straight at him. The paint-thinner bomb floated through the air for what seemed an eternity before arcing downward, finally exploding on the red-hot kiln. Fire mushroomed up, racing out along the floor. The madman disappeared as the doorway burst into flame.
Michael, fighting the agony of his throbbing shoulder and what was surely a concussion, scrambled across the room through the thickening flame and smoke. From a shelf he grabbed a tarp and threw it over the stunned woman. He tore away her mask and gag. She saw the flames and shrieked, on the border of hysteria. Tying his rope to the table leg, Michael hurled a chair through the window and, immediately behind it, the rope. He clipped on his harness and grabbed the lady. She didn’t need to be told where they were going: she held on.
He hurled himself and his burden out the window as the room erupted. Together, they tumbled down through the summer air as the table skidded along the floor, finally slamming home against the window. They jolted to a halt—stories above the alley below. Flames licked out the window only yards above their heads.
They touched down on the sidewalk just as the town house windows exploded, flames and plumes of smoke curling up into the city sky. The interior of the town house glowed orange as the sixth floor became fully engulfed. He lay the woman down. She was whimpering incoherently as she pulled the tarp tight around her naked body, shivering and weeping.
Michael tore off his belt, throwing the tools in the bushes, and checked the diamond-filled satchel on his back. Still there. The blood poured from his shoulder, his dark shirt had gone crimson. He hoped the blood loss wasn’t fatal; he didn’t have time to deal with dying right now. He leaned over the woman. Life was returning to her eyes. She smiled, as the tears rolled down her face.
Sirens blared and within seconds three police cars screeched to a halt across the street. Michael looked across Fifth Avenue toward the wall to Central Park. He touched the pouch on his back; it was his future. Freedom was only twenty yards away.
He could still make it.
Chapter 1
Stained glass—they don’t make it like this anymore: brilliant purples, deep rose, rich gold, all melded to depict the Gates of Heaven, the centerpiece of an old-fashioned, whitewashed church. The morning sun filtered in, casting colored shadows upon the host of parishioners, some there because they wanted to be, most because they had to be. And like in any house of worship, no matter the denomination, there were the people who sat in the front pews as if their proximity to the altar made them closer to salvation. The ladies in their fine dresses, the men cologned, blazered, and adorned in their best silk ties, all thinking it was the clothes that made the saint.
Behind the pulpit stood Father Patrick Shaunessy. His close-cropped hair was pure white and in sharp contrast to his stern black eyebrows. His stubby arms, buried deep in the folds of his voluminous green cassock, moved with the Irish lilt of his voice. For years he had preached to his flock, many hours spent on his words of wisdom, but he never failed to wonder whether he had ever gotten through to a single individual. Now, just as in his youth, there was a constant rate of crime, adultery, and a general exodus from religion. People, it seemed, put their faith in technology, science, and sex, believing only in the tangible. If you can’t stroke it, don’t believe it. Not sure why, Father Shaunessy preached on with the hope that he would save at least one soul from this world gone to confusion.
The priest may have been a slight man; some would say he bordered on puny—he had had fleeting dreams of being an equestrian legend, racing for the roses at Churchill Downs—but his voice, that was his gift, for his voice was as large as his body was small. And it was this voice that now boomed out over his congregation.
“You cannot steal salvation, like a thief in the night. For it is not perfection of life on this earth for which we strive, but perfection of faith. Faith in God will provide us eternal life, faith alone is the key that will grant us eternal salvation.”
He gathered up his papers and, as if for emphasis, murmured, “If you open your missal to ‘Morning Has Broken,’ page one hundred and three.”
The congregation joined in song, and while it wasn’t Cat Stevens, it was on-key and hopeful, filling the air, echoing off the rafters.
Near the rear of the church, tucked away in the back, almost as if in hiding, sat Father Shaunessy’s greatest fan. If the woman was trying to hide, it would be a daunting task; the auburn curls spilling down her back like liquid fire made her impossible to miss. With an air of confidence and a missal in hand, she sang quietly to herself; an action that stood in stark contrast to the rest of her life. She had been hard to contain for more years than anyone could remember. Since the age of thirteen, she had been one of those contradictions—learning of the seven deadly sins at Catholic school during the day, then running around at night, trying to commit all of them. And though the years brought temperance and a sense of responsibility, she would never totally abandon her wild roots. Saturday night usually found her out dancing, but almost every Sunday, no matter the weather, no matter her health, no matter what, she could be found in the same seat at eleven a.m., her head bowed, quietly thankful for everything in her world. Although she didn’t always agree with the Church and her manner would never get her nominated for sainthood, Mary St. Pierre’s faith in God always rang true.
Beside her in the pew her husband sat silently, his lips tight in protest as he contemplated the singing congregation. A shock of unkempt brown hair framed a strong face, striking, yet worn beyond its thirty-eight years. The man fidgeted. You could see in his dark eyes that his mind
was already at the exit. To date, Michael St. Pierre had never told his wife of his diminishing faith, and now was definitely not the moment to do so. They already had enough issues to deal with.
Mary and Michael exited the church amidst the throng of parishioners all angling to shake their pastor’s hand, hoping against hope that maybe some of the priest’s holiness would rub off on their own souls.
Father Shaunessy went through the motions with a cordial nod to each, thanking them as they complimented his sermon, his slight smile hiding the question in his mind: If quizzed, could anyone of them repeat a single sentence, let alone the daily moral? But then his face lit up, for he had caught Mary St. Pierre’s eye.
“Beautiful sermon, Father,” Mary said, looking down on the little priest. It was almost as if she was talking to a child, the disparity in their heights was so extreme. Concerned her size would make him uncomfortable, she was always careful never to wear heels to church, but even in her flat shoes she pushed five feet nine.
The Thieves of Heaven Page 2
