The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  “So, here we are, not exactly neighbors—Byram Hills being about thirty-five hundred miles from Italy. I can’t imagine you came all this way to borrow my snowblower.”

  Genevieve smiled at Michael, a soft laugh escaping her lips, but it quickly dissolved. “I need to ask something of you.” She spoke quickly as if she had to get it out.

  “Whatever you need.”

  “Please don’t answer yet. I’m going to ask you to think upon what I am about to say.”

  “It’s OK,” Michael said softly, hearing the hesitancy in her voice. He tilted his head in sympathy; he had never heard her speak so ominously.

  “There is a painting. It is my painting, Michael, something that has been in my family for a long time. It is one of only two works in existence by an obscure artist. I thought it lost but I have recently learned it has surfaced on the black market. It contains a family secret, one of great consequence.” Genevieve paused a moment as she resumed rubbing Hawk’s belly. She stared at the dog as she continued. “It is not that I desire its return; in fact, I wish it to be destroyed before it is acquired by the one person who should never take possession of it.”

  Michael sat there, fully understanding she was asking him to commit a crime on her behalf. Michael looked at the envelope, at the blue cruciform of Genevieve’s family crest, the moment seeming to drag on as the cold of the morning began to penetrate his core.

  “I am being hunted, Michael. Hunted to unlock the secret of this work of art.”

  “What do you mean, hunted?” Michael said, a tinge of defensive anger seeping into his voice. He abruptly sat up, listening more intently.

  “The man who is trying to acquire this painting has the darkest of hearts. A man without compassion, without remorse. He stops at nothing to achieve his ends. No life is too consequential, no deed too unholy. He is desperate and, like a trapped animal that will chew off its own limbs to escape, a desperate man knows no limit, knows no boundary. And the path that he seeks, the path to where this painting will guide him, will only lead to death.”

  “How do you know?” Michael said. There was sympathy in his voice, without a trace of skepticism. “How can you be sure you’re not jumping to conclusions? To hunt another human being…Who could be so cold?”

  “The man I speak of, it shames me to say, the man who hunts me”—Genevieve looked at Michael, her broken heart reflected in her eyes—“is my own son.”

  Michael sat there absorbing her words, not breaking eye contact. Her eyes, which had always been so strong, so confident, were now desperate, adrift like the eyes of a lost child.

  Finally, Genevieve flipped open the brass clasp on her tan leather purse, reached in, and withdrew her car keys. She stood, brushing herself off, regaining her composure and dignity.

  Michael silently rose, standing beside her, looking upon her. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Genevieve leaned in, kissed him softly on the cheek. “Do not say a word. I am shamed by what I ask.” She gently tapped the manila envelope in Michael’s hand. “I understand if you decline; in fact, I hope you do. I’m foolish for coming here.”

  “Genevieve…” Michael began, but he was lost for words as she stepped back.

  “I’ll call you in a week,” she said as she turned away.

  Michael watched as she walked down the snowy walkway, entered her car, and drove off.

  Over the following days, Michael thought on Genevieve’s request: was it an overreaction, a paranoid response to a maternal love betrayed? The desperation in her eyes…it was so contrary to her personality as her words pled to his soul. While Michael’s mind was filled with doubt, he did not question Genevieve’s intent even once, for whatever the painting’s significance, she believed in it with her entire being.

  Genevieve’s request had weighed heavy on Michael; she was asking him to reenter a world that he’d left far behind, that he hadn’t known since Mary had passed away. A life he was happy to leave in memory of a wife whose morals were stronger than steel. Besides, his skills were rusty and his mind, he feared, had begun to lose its edge. She was asking him to not only steal a painting, but ensure that it would never fall into her son’s possession.

  Three days later, Michael picked up the phone to call her, to discuss it, to offer emotional support like she had offered him. He would save his polite decline for the end. She was asking him to break into a gallery that only existed on the black market, that was but a rumor heard on the wind. And even if he was to somehow find it in a dream, it would be nearly impenetrable.

  But his heart skipped a beat when he found her phone disconnected. He hung up and immediately called Simon. Michael didn’t need to hear the words; it was the tone of his friend’s voice that said it all.

  Genevieve was dead.

  Belange was only a rumor in the art world. A firm that dealt in black-market, gray-market, off-market merchandise for the refined taste. Paintings, sculptures, jewelry, and antiquities: items thought forever lost. An organization dealing in legendary artifacts. But the rumor was actually fictitious. Belange was a code name for Killian McShane. His was an organization of one; his place of business was actually ten addresses scattered throughout Switzerland and Amsterdam. While McShane was a true lover of art and it was his full-time occupation, not a single address bore any evidence of that fact. Each building was, in actuality, an elegant town house, its tenants leaning toward the financial services world. McShane would maintain a basement office in every address and would visit each location only twice a year.

  McShane acted as a clandestine merchant for the art world’s forgotten treasures, charging 15 percent on all transactions. His vow of secrecy and discretion was only exceeded by his security, and the security at 24, rue de Fleur was of the highest caliber. There were three guards at all times: at the main entrance, in the lobby, and on the rooftop. They were not your typical rent-a-cops. McShane chose only former military police, those trained with the requisite skills to provide his dealings the appropriate level of protection. They were hired for their two greatest talents, detection and marksmanship, and instructed not to hesitate in using either at their discretion. The electronic measures employed were cutting edge, drawing on high-end military design and museum-level countermeasures, all unheard of unless you were conversant in the world of thieves.

  Each painting or object to be traded was brought into the unmarked building under tight security and placed on display in a climate-controlled basement room secure for viewing. Upon completion of the negotiations, the monies were brought in and provided to McShane. Neither party to the transaction was ever aware of the other party’s identity and even McShane would remain anonymous, working through intermediaries. Payment was strictly through bearer bonds, so as to avoid the inconvenient paper trail of banks. The bonds would be delivered and held for twenty-four hours for verification of validity. Upon completion of the time period, both the monies and the artwork would be released to the parties in question without evidence of the transaction ever having taken place.

  The sexual fireworks went off exactly as planned, the perfect distraction that lured the eyes of even the most steadfast roof guard away from his duty in the way that instinct has a primordial influence over even the most vigilant of minds. They were pyrotechnics of an intimate expression. Two ladies of the evening arrived on the neighboring rooftop that sat one story lower with a student in tow and, ignoring the chill of the night, removed their fur coats to reveal soft naked bodies of perfection. They turned on their boombox to a techno grind and proceeded to entertain the twenty-year-old in sensual ways he could never have imagined, all the while putting on a show for the lone voyeur on the windy roof across the alley.

  Michael slipped over the far side parapet unbeknownst to the distracted and aroused guard. He had scaled the five-story town house, its evenly spaced granite blocks providing perfect finger-and toeholds. The elevator bulkhead supplied coverage as he silently opened his supply pack, and pulled out and secured a ker
nmantle climbing rope for a quick escape. He placed two large magnets at the top and base of the elevator bulkhead door, freezing the alarm arms in place, rendering them useless to indicate a breach. Michael made quick work of the door lock and slipped through, quietly pulling the door closed behind him without even a click. Through Genevieve’s info and his considerable contacts in the underworld, Michael had been able to piece together Belange’s current address and confirm the pending transaction. Purchasing the blueprints of the building proved far more trouble and he had only completed their review in the last hour.

  Michael peered down the hundred-year-old dark elevator shaft; stale earthen odors wafted up, assaulting his senses. He pulled the spring-loaded descent cam from his bag and affixed it to the elevator frame that ran across the ceiling. He clipped his climbing harness to the descent line, checked the pack on his back, and silently dropped six stories into darkness. The cam dropped him at a rate of descent controlled by the remote in his hand. The cam was not so much for going down but for the quick rubber-band-like effect it would have as it pulled him out of the basement for his hopefully successful exit.

  He slowed to a stop two inches short of the roof of the elevator cab, which was parked for the night in the subbasement. He stood on the elevator and placed his ear against the cold metal door. Greeted with silence, he gingerly released the doors, sliding them back on their tracks, and climbed into the dark hallway.

  The art world, like all business, is about the profit. A car, a computer, even a prostitute is of greatest value when it is fresh and new, unmarred by age, wear and tear, and life. The value of a work of art, on the other hand, like a fine wine, takes time to appreciate. It is only when its creator is deceased, unable to reap the true rewards of his soul’s creation, that a masterpiece achieves its veritable worth. Painting, like most art, is accomplished through the interpretation of the artist: seen through his eyes and his mind, filtered through his soul, and expressed through his heart. Each work is a unique labor of love, each one a child to be loved, to be proud of, wrought by the pain and suffering of creation. And yet with all of the hard work it is rarely the artist who reaps the rewards of his efforts, of his offspring’s potential. It is the investor, the one with the money, the one who knows how to exploit the marketplace, who enjoys the spoils: individuals who wouldn’t know the difference between a canvas and a piece of paper, a paintbrush and a fountain pen, ink and oil. While they may appreciate what they trade in, it is really the sense of possession that fills them with pride. For they possess a unique object, a one-of-a-kind, unable to be reproduced by its deceased creator.

  It is the desire to obtain the unattainable that drives the true collector. To possess what others cannot. Items thought long gone, lost to time, to history, to wars and ravage. And as the economic model dictates, price is truly a function of supply and demand.

  The Bequest by Chaucer Govier represented the height of the artist’s career, a true masterpiece in every sense of the word. It was considered one of his two greatest works, of such exquisite beauty and emotion he knew he could never equal its perfection. He had briefly been blessed by God with an insight into creation and had come away with a divine achievement.

  Govier was not a well-known artist, but in the days to come his story would make headlines. The diary of his sister had recently been found and authenticated. While the diary detailed Govier’s life, it was the final page that would capture the world’s interest. It was an account of his death in 1610 that would turn the art world into a feeding frenzy. Govier’s life rivaled van Gogh’s in its drama.

  To pay for his paint, Govier served as a handyman for the Trinity monastery. Every week he would ride up into the Highlands of Scotland, bringing goods to the monks and performing minor repairs. It was on a Sunday, while applying pitch to a leak in the roof, that he struck up a conversation with a dying monk by the name of Zhitnik. Govier could barely understand the man’s Russian-accented English as they mused on the weather, nature, and life. The conversation eventually turned toward art and God, passions that they both held dear. Zhitnik told him of the great works in Moscow and particularly the Kremlin, holding Govier in rapt attention. He spoke of legends and stories of God and his angels, tales that held Govier in awe until well after nine that evening, at which point the young artist bid the old dying monk good-bye. But on his way out the door, the monk called the young artist to his bedside and gave him two thick pieces of canvas. The monk bid him to create two paintings depicting the stories he had told and asked that they be delivered to an address in southern Europe. He gave Govier the cross from around his neck and asked that it be sent along with the canvas for authentication purposes. The monk could offer no payment beyond his prayers and sent Govier on his way with his blessing.

  Captivated, Govier set forth immediately and toiled without rest for two weeks, committing the monk’s stories to canvas, rendering The Bequest and The Eternal. On the morning after their completion, Govier wept at their beauty, at their true depiction of God, and sent them off with the cross as the monk had requested. And as his heart broke that morning at his staggering achievement of genius, he leapt off the Fonx Tower Bridge into the raging St. Ann River, carried over the falls, his body and talent broken upon the rocks.

  While its sister painting, The Eternal, disappeared from existence, The Bequest traded hands, moving throughout Europe until it hung with great pride in the Trepaud family estate outside of Paris until June 14, 1940: the day the Nazis stormed the town. Erwin Rommel led his troops in easily, scooping up all works of art in his path, including The Bequest. Most of his spoils went to his private collection and were lost to history upon his death in 1945 in the sands of Africa.

  But like all miracles of genius, “lost” is a relative term. The Bequest survived destruction, floating through many a hand, traded in secret, enriching those whose hands it passed through. Now, it sat in the environmentally controlled basement vault of the black market firm Belange, a location known only to McShane, the purchaser of The Bequest, and the man dressed in black who ran along its basement hallway.

  Michael clung to the ceiling, his knees and hands strapped into the aluminum grappling support, his body just out of range of the camera’s sweep. The single camera rotated on a one-hundred-fifty-degree arc at twenty-second intervals. The room was simple, laid out with two opulent chairs and a couch. The walls were of dark cherrywood while the lighting was subtle, provided by a single lamp and a frame light. The floor was a tightly woven green rug pulled through a fine metal mesh. None could see the unobtrusive screen, but one inadvertent step on the floor would deliver a shock equal to that of a stun gun, quickly rendering an intruder into a pathetic drooling ball on the floor, momentarily paralyzed.

  Michael had studied Govier’s painting for countless hours. All the preparation did not adequately prepare him for the canvas before him. Its perfection was an understatement. His focus had gone toward the way it was hung on secured alarmed brackets, on the thickness of the room’s walls, on the complexity of the building’s security, and the training of its personnel. But now, as he hung from the ceiling, he realized he was looking at a true masterpiece.

  Michael watched the sweep of the camera, timing it, playing out his next move four times over, running it through his mind as if he were actually performing it. And then, as if it were routine, Michael released his hands and swung backward upside down, suspended by his knees. His knife was a blur as it circumnavigated the perimeter of the frame, cutting the canvas from its mooring. He ripped the sturdy canvas from the frame and in a single motion put a replacement picture in its place, the magnetic backing clinging to the metal mounting brackets where the frame was affixed. The replica was merely an enlarged textured photo, but to the camera it was the perfect lie. He swung himself back up, perfectly timed as the cameras swept the room again, right by the art.

  Michael shimmied his way backward along the ceiling and swung out the door. He dropped to the floor and laid the painting out be
fore him. He looked at the masterpiece up close, admiring its beauty for the briefest of moments before flipping it over.

  As he looked at the canvas, his mind grew confused. He ran his hand along it, feeling its rough texture, examining the gray surface for any sign of what Genevieve had said would be there that was so dire. But Michael found nothing. But for Govier’s signature on the bottom, the back of the painting was blank.

  Michael lifted the canvas, holding it high in the air. He placed his flashlight against the back, but its beam did not penetrate the work of art. Finally, Michael examined the edges, turning the painting around and around. It was the thickness that caught his eye.

  He pulled his knife and ran it along the edge, hoping he was right, praying he wasn’t destroying the priceless piece of art for nothing. His blade slipped into the painting up to the hilt, lost between either side of the canvas. Michael drew the knife along the edge, turned the corner, and continued slicing until the blade arrived back at its starting point. The two pieces of canvas flopped downward like a peeled banana. Michael grabbed either edge of what was now obviously two canvases and peeled them apart. He lay the halves on the ground. The back of the priceless painting was blank. But the other canvas…Michael stared at it. It was an intricate map that filled the five-by-three-foot canvas with exacting detail, a multidimensional depiction of exquisite transparent buildings interspersed with paths labeled in Latin and Russian. While Govier’s work was an artistic masterpiece, this was something more. This was what scared Genevieve, this was what cost her her life.