The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  “What’s taking him so long?” Susan said impatiently.

  Busch stretched out his arms and thrust out his chest, trying to work out the kinks from the flight. “Why don’t you go back to the hotel and let him be?”

  “Don’t you start telling me what to do,” Susan snapped. “You’re here on my dime.” She grabbed the door handle.

  “Look, Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas anymore, and you know the saying…”

  She looked at him, perplexed, her hands up impatiently, begging the answer. “What?”

  “When in Rome…stay in the safety of your limo.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” And she tore open the car door and stepped out.

  Busch watched amazed as the door slammed behind her. Her business associate didn’t even bother looking up; he went about his work as if she were still in the car.

  “Is she always like this?” Busch asked Martin. Not that he expected a response. Busch got out his side of the car and watched as Susan stormed off toward Red Square. “And we brought her because…?” he asked himself before taking up her pursuit.

  The crowds were growing in Red Square: it looked to be at least two thousand people scattered about, packs bunching up, stragglers on the outskirts. All heading in or out of the open area. Busch was oblivious to his grand surroundings as he tried to keep an eye on Susan, his heart beginning to race as he chased after the naïve woman who was unaccustomed to not being in control. Busch was beginning to lose sight of her in the crowds and broke into a jog as she speed-walked toward St. Basil’s.

  One hundred yards ahead, Busch saw Michael walking out of the square with a thick Russian at his side. Busch slowed his pace in relief as he saw Susan approach them.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, an arm emerged from the crowd, grabbing Susan by the arm and pulling her into the masses.

  Busch broke into a sprint, dashing to where she had just been. He spun around and around. There were people everywhere, all oblivious to his searching eye. Busch finally looked down and there on the ground was Susan’s diamond watch; he picked it up, amazed that someone hadn’t snatched it in the two seconds it lay there in the middle of Red Square. He frantically looked about, squinting, hoping to catch a glimpse of her before she was dragged away to be lost forever.

  And like that, she was gone.

  The bearded man stood off to the side, watching as the-tourists passed through the Kremlin gates. He took comfort in the feel of the small Glock resting against the small of his back. There was no need to hold the pistol like a security blanket. He could draw faster than anyone; he would have made a perfect old west lawman.

  He was amazed at the volume of people clamoring to get over the bridge and into the Russian capital. It had truly grown as a destination over the last fifteen years, standing in sharp contrast to the seventy-five years that people avoided it like the plague, afraid that they might only pass over the bridge once, never to return from inside the enormous brick walls.

  The man was tall, his dark hair long, running over the collar of his white polo shirt. He had arrived yesterday, his alias secure enough to afford him a wave-through at customs. He came in empty-handed but had immediately gone shopping. He had picked up six Heckler & Koch PDWs, six Glock pistols, enough ammo to stage a war. Six smoke bombs with remote timers, six incendiary bombs for the unexpected, and twenty pounds of Semtex. The trunk of his Mercedes could barely close.

  He regretted killing the middle-aged Russian mafioso who seemed to run a Wal-Mart of weapons, but the man brought it on himself. After having paid the agreed-upon price, the Russian tried to blackmail him with the threat of calling the police if he didn’t double the day’s take. When the bearded man refused, the Russian tried to pull a gun but was dead before his finger neared the trigger.

  And so the bearded man watched the short, bulky Russian limp through the archway with the American. He knew where they were going and what they were doing. And when the time came he would be ready, no matter what it took, no matter how many people died. He had two things to do and nothing could stop him…

  Susan sat in the rear seat of a Mercedes limousine, the windows so smoked that she couldn’t see outside. Across from her sat the assailant who had forced her at gunpoint into his car. He hadn’t said a word even as she screamed at him in fury. She knew she should be scared, even terrified, but the rage running through her only made her want to beat the man in front of her. He was no more than twenty, his acne scars still fresh. There was a coldness in his young eyes; he placed no value on life or his own mortality. She wondered if he had any aspirations beyond tomorrow. Russian mafia, she concluded: slicked-back blond hair, an Armani sport coat, and gaudy thick gold jewelry. She couldn’t understand why they all aspired to look like disco-era mafiosos from Brooklyn.

  “People are looking for me,” Susan said.

  But he remained silent as he stared at her stone-faced.

  “The U.S. consulate will be—”

  A sharp ring cut her short. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “Oa,” he said, and that was all he said as he nodded his head and grunted affirmatives into his phone. After thirty seconds, he finally closed it.

  He knocked on the partition and mumbled something in Russian to the driver.

  Susan looked at him. “Where are you taking me?”

  He continued to stare at her.

  “I demand to know where we are going.”

  And the young man smiled. “Someone wishes to see you,” he said, his English unexpectedly good.

  “Who…?” Susan asked, surprised that he finally answered her.

  “Someone in the Kremlin.”

  And the fear that Susan had held at bay so well finally flooded in.

  Chapter 23

  Nikolai Fetisov led Michael through the diminutive but ornate Kutafya Tower on the west side of the Kremlin, across a bridge under which once flowed the Neglinnaya River—a moat in every sense—before its course was diverted into a pipe laid under the Alexandrovsky Gardens. They continued through the enormous Troitskaya Tower, the tallest in the Kremlin wall. Known in English as the Trinity Tower, the 230-foot structure, begun in 1495, was crowned with an enormous spire whose grandeur was but a precursor of the magnificent world that lay within. It was the main public entrance used by the public and a perfect bottleneck for security.

  “Where are we going?” Michael asked.

  “Someone wants to see you,” Fetisov answered as he adjusted his glasses. “But I thought while we were on our way, I would show you around, give you a taste of Russian hospitality.”

  They were surrounded by tour groups, Michael estimated at least ten, with guides speaking a host of different languages. While everyone paid a fee, Nikolai Fetisov merely waved a pass that Michael had no opportunity to glimpse, and they were ushered through. Fetisov affixed a badge to the lapel of Michael’s sport jacket and it was as if the seas parted for them. Guards suddenly nodded, doors were opened, and emotionless people smiled.

  “Who are we going to see?” Michael asked.

  “As I’m sure you know, the Kremlin is the seat of Russian government, overseeing a country that extends over eleven time zones. Much of the Soviet world was shaped from within these walls.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Michael said.

  “You do not like more tour guide speech?”

  “I want to know where we are going,” Michael said through gritted teeth as he came to a stop.

  Fetisov stepped into Michael’s space, uncomfortably close. Michael could smell the man’s foul, stale breath. Fetisov turned his head so his one good eye was centered on Michael and he whispered, “Do not make a scene, do not raise your voice to me again, particularly within these walls. As a thief, I thought you would possess a bit of discretion. But I guess I was mistaken. You need to know what you are up against, what you will be facing, and I’m going to show it to you. You were reconning the outside of the Kremlin walls, now I am providing you the opportunity to recon t
he inside.”

  Michael stared at the Russian and finally stepped back. “How do you know what I need to see?”

  Fetisov paused a moment to make his point. “Within the Kremlin, within Russia, I know everything.”

  “If you know everything, then why don’t you find the box?” Michael turned to walk away.

  Fetisov looked at Michael for a moment before breaking out in a big grin. “Well, there may be one or two things I do not know.”

  Fetisov turned to a small side door. It was being guarded by a tall blond man, a teenager really, with pockmarked skin. He and Fetisov spoke in short bursts of Russian, both of them occasionally looking toward Michael.

  Finally, the young man opened the door and motioned Michael in.

  Michael tentatively stepped through the door to see Susan seated in a vestibule on a small couch. Confusion washed over both of their faces as they turned and looked at the two Russians.

  “We didn’t know if she was with you or trailing you,” Fetisov said.

  “Trailing me? I thought you were Mr. Know-It-All, that everything happened under your watch.” Michael was pissed as he turned to Susan. “Are you all right?”

  Susan looked up at Michael and nodded, breathing a sigh of relief. “I’m not too fond of this country so far.” She glanced at the young Russian and then back at Michael. “Or its people.”

  “I’m sorry to have caused you any pain,” Fetisov said. “Lexie here was just watching my back, he’s a good boy.”

  “That’s debatable,” Susan said.

  Fetisov laughed. “That’s what his mother always says.”

  Michael turned his back to Fetisov and looked at Susan. “You were supposed to stay in the car.” Michael tried to admonish her with his eyes but she avoided his gaze. “Where’s Busch?”

  She glanced up at Michael. “I was anxious, I can’t sit back and do nothing. I left him in the car—”

  “Actually,” Fetisov said, pulling Michael’s attention away from Susan, “your large blond friend is wandering around Red Square. Rather frantically, I might add. Not to worry. I’ll send one of my men to let him know you are all right, that you are getting a first-rate tour for free. He can go to your hotel, get a drink, and watch reruns of I Love Lucy in Russian.”

  Neither Michael nor Susan could tell if he was serious.

  “But enough wasted time.” Fetisov opened the door and motioned to Susan. “I hope you will join our little expedition.”

  Susan slowly rose from the couch and followed Michael out of the door and across the entrance to a courtyard.

  Before them was an enormous building surrounded by eight hundred cannons. A two-story archway was protected by a pair of menacing-looking guards dressed in crisp blue military uniforms, rifles held tight to their chests. Fetisov made a point of steering his party away from them.

  Michael couldn’t help staring at the imposing building with its equally imposing guards. “What is that building?”

  “It’s just the Arsenal, they’re a little serious in there. We’ll see that last,” Fetisov said as he directed their attention to a modern building. Made of plate glass interspersed with numerous triple-faceted pylons of white marble, it stood in sharp contrast to all of the other structures within the Kremlin. “The Palace of Congresses was constructed in the early sixties to show off the proud Communist machine. For the first time everyone could hear the bombastic rhetoric of Nikita Khrushchev and the wonderful Soviet congress gather and pound their chests. Today it is a nice place to watch ballet and hear rock concerts with six thousand of your closest friends. I think you will find interesting the view through some of its windows.” Michael and Susan saw a series of escalators running down below grade level. “Half of the building is underground. We Russians like to do things underground, if you know what I mean.” Fetisov winked his one good eye.

  “How many means of egress for the Kremlin?” Michael asked.

  Fetisov smiled. “Too many to count. There are only two public—”

  “I need you to map them for me.”

  “Done,” Fetisov said without thought, and continued on.

  Michael watched him as he limped across the plaza, wondering who exactly this man really was, whether he could actually procure Michael’s necessities, and whether he was truly there to help.

  “The Italian master builder and engineer Aristotle Fioravanti was the initial designer of the Kremlin and was brought here from Italy at the request of the grand prince of Russia, Ivan the Third, and his wife, Sofia Paleolog. He was summoned based on his vast experience and expertise at building castles in Milan, fortresses in Hungary, and tunnels in Rome. The walls of the Kremlin were built by the order of Ivan the Great to replace the white-stoned barriers that had surrounded the city for over two hundred years. The red-brick walls were constructed by three Italian masters Anton and Mark Fryazin, and Pietro Antonio Solario. The walls are a mile and a half long, up to sixty feet high, twenty feet thick, and ringed with nineteen towers. The top of the walls, along their entire length, serve as battle platforms which range from six to fourteen feet in width. There are one thousand forty-five swallow-tailed merlons that look like teeth crowning the top of the walls. The multitiered towers are interconnected and not only provide a tremendous defense for the city but are well positioned to meet any marauding force head-on. The three corner towers are round so troops could fire at all angles. And where strategic roads used to converge on the Kremlin, double-strong carriage-accessible towers were constructed. No other seat of power in the modern world is within a walled city except for the Vatican, and it is like a cardboard box compared to our steel tank. No one dares to breach these walls.” Fetisov looked at Michael. “I never heard of the fool who tried and if there was a fool who did, he was simply lost in the shadows within and erased from existence.” Fetisov continued to look at Michael before breaking out in a broad smile. “Scary, huh.” He chuckled and walked on.

  “During the times of the Soviet Union, the Kremlin was the dark and dreary center of a dead, forgotten city. Now, even though none of the buildings has changed, it is once again magnificent. It is amazing that the eyes we look through can be filtered by our hearts and politics.”

  Michael asked Susan to stop while he took her picture, ensuring that he captured the wall, the gates, the guards, the general ebb and flow of everything within the confines of the Russian landmark.

  They walked silently for ten minutes past ornate structures that dragged their minds to medieval times. While Susan was fascinated, Michael was concerned. Countless guards walked the grounds, patrolled the battlements atop the great wall, and remained in a constant state of alert. Everyone was being watched.

  Fetisov stopped and threw his hands wide. Before them was a truly enormous building, a palace in every sense of the word. An ornate structure with exquisite archways, moldings, and filigrees throughout. Hundreds upon hundreds of windows wrapped the golden and white exterior. “Now this is pure Russian architecture. The Great Kremlin Palace. It took eleven years to build this for the imperial family of Nicholas the First. The main facade of the palace faces the Moskva River. It is almost four hundred ten feet long and one hundred fifty-four feet high. There are almost seven hundred rooms in any variety of styles from Baroque to Classicism to good old Russian Renaissance. Before electricity, it used to take twenty thousand candles and five thousand kerosene lamps per night to light the building. Now”—he turned away in disgust—“the place is just for ceremony. Its halls and chambers are used for official meetings and receptions, for kissing Western ass.”

  Fetisov shuffled along, Michael and Susan a step behind, with Lexie taking up the rear. Fetisov came to a large door that led into an enormous building. Without a word, he opened it and motioned everyone to enter.

  They walked silently down a large wide hall past ornate rooms filled with the treasures of Russian history. Imperial thrones and crowns, costumes and exquisite carriages, artifacts from their fascinating yet checkered past,
brought together in the supreme collection of Russian treasure.

  “This is our greatest museum, it is on par with the Louvre, the Vatican Museums, your Smithsonian, yet you couldn’t even tell me its name.”

  Michael and Susan said nothing, slightly shaking their heads.

  “It’s OK, most people in the Western world have not heard of the Armory. It includes a vast collection of Imperial Russian artwork, over fifty Fabergé eggs, Catherine the Great’s ball gowns—”

  “Ball gowns?” Michael asked, losing patience again. “And how are ball gowns going to provide me the insight I need?”

  “Shhh, this will only take two seconds. You will like where we are going.” Fetisov sounded like a parent who was bursting to give his child a birthday present. He continued to lead them at a brisk pace down the Armory’s never-ending hall. “Relax, play the tourist for a moment, I think you are going to love this.”

  They arrived at a door ringed in guards who parted ways as they saw Fetisov’s credentials. “The Diamond Fund: you want to steal something? This is where you go.” Before them was an exquisite collection of gems: rubies, sapphires, diamonds. Hundreds of them. All on display. Some within crowns, necklaces, bracelets, others all alone, crying their historic significance to the world.