The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  “Then why not pay the ransom? The world under the Kremlin belongs to Russia anyway. He’s got money, power; in the whole scheme of things, what more could he possibly want in life? What’s so special about this little box?”

  “Do I need to remind you that you are the one with the map, not Julian? And do I need to remind you that he will kill your father if you don’t bring him the box and Genevieve? He has added to his demands: your father for his mother. Be thankful he doesn’t add anything else or the chance of seeing your father for the second time in your life will be limited to him resting in a coffin.”

  Chapter 24

  The full-floor suite at Le Royal Meridien National afforded a grand view of the Kremlin skyline, lit up in its majestic beauty. Its burst of colors and Seussian-like rooftops was like something out of a fairy tale. Michael found himself still trying to erase the dark, dreary assumptions he had formed of the Russian world over the years. The Russia through the hotel window was certainly not the Russia of his imagination.

  Michael sat at the dining room table, his charts and documents spread out before him. It was three in the morning, the time when he did his best thinking. The world was quiet, sleeping, and there were no interruptions. He especially liked the time difference; it was the first time he embraced jet lag.

  He wondered what he was doing here. Michael had never in all his years heard of a robbery at the Kremlin; he didn’t doubt that there had been attempts, he just knew no one ever emerged from the Kremlin walls to tell the tale. As he thought on the task ahead, he almost wished he was planning an assault on the White House: at least he would be afforded a fair trial if he got caught.

  Michael pulled out and examined the map of the Kremlin underground. The diagram was nearly five feet wide and over three feet high, a comprehensive depiction of the entire subterranean world beneath the Kremlin. Each room marked, each path detailed; it was the key to the unveiling of the Kremlin’s long lost history and a primer to forgotten riches, mysteries, and controversies. The detail was mind-numbing as it portrayed all levels and was marked with legends and guideposts written five hundred years in the past. Rivers and tunnels, caverns and large rooms all rendered in detail down to the ghostly penciled-in overlay of the actual Kremlin structures on the terra firma above. The depiction of the small city didn’t approximate its current configuration and new structures, but he was not concerned with that detail. Through an extrapolation of the current layout in combination with the map’s underground configuration, he had the bearings he would need to find his way to not only the Liberia but the newly constructed lab where Genevieve was being held.

  The location of the Byzantine Liberia was clearly marked on the far westerly side of the map, not far from the banks of the Moskva River. It appeared to be one hundred and twenty feet below the surface through a series of tunnels and canals in a structure that was state-of-the-art five hundred years ago. But the world depicted on the parchment before him did not tell him of the deterioration that accompanied the centuries. He did not know nor could he anticipate whether the clearly delineated pathways still existed, whether they had succumbed to rock falls and cave-ins, whether he was studying a map whose value might equate to nothing more than a frameable work of art. But whatever the case might be, come tomorrow he would find out if he truly had a chance at success.

  Susan wandered in, dressed in a long silk robe; untied, it fluttered with her walk. Her black hair was brushed out over her shoulders. Her makeup was gone and Michael wondered why she even bothered with the daily ritual. She had one of those rare faces that needed no accent, no concealers or enhancers to increase her allure.

  Michael forced himself to look back at his work.

  “You can’t sleep, either, huh?” Susan asked as she sat down across from Michael.

  “I’m not a big sleeper.” Michael kept his head buried in his work. “Do you need anything?” Michael said it more to get rid of her than to help her.

  “I just came down to say I’m sorry.”

  Michael looked up. “For…?”

  She pursed her lips. “I guess a whole bunch of things. My actions, things I’ve said.” She paused before finally adding, “The loss of your wife.”

  Michael stared at her a moment. “Thanks.” And he went back to his work.

  “How do you do it?” Susan asked quietly.

  “Do what?” Michael didn’t look up.

  “Go through life.”

  Michael looked at her, surprised at her intimate question. He realized, though, that she had faced a loss similar to his. He thought for a moment. And then finally, “I just try to tuck the pain away and take comfort in the fact that she is in a better place.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Michael ran his hands down his face as if the action would give him the answer he sought to provide. He looked at her, and gently said, “After everything I have seen, I believe it with all my heart.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Mary was the air that I breathed. She was my best friend.”

  Susan tilted her head as if in understanding. “No one knew me better than Peter. He didn’t care about my mood swings—”

  Michael smirked. “He must have had the patience of a saint.”

  She smiled. “He put me first. I never had to look out for myself or watch my back, because I knew he would do it for me. And nothing mattered as long as we were together.”

  Michael’s relationship with Mary had been the same way. And that was what he missed the most. The simple things like just being together, doing little favors for each other with the only reward being the look in his wife’s eyes. The selflessness of love: no agenda, no jealousy. So simple yet so rare.

  Susan was staring at Michael. “You would have liked Peter. He always wanted a brother.”

  Michael didn’t know what to say.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  Michael shook his head. “I don’t have any family.”

  Susan brushed her hair off her face and sat back in her chair. “You have a father.”

  The way she said it, it was as if Stephen was always Michael’s father. And as he thought on it, he realized that he was beginning to think of Stephen in that context. “I guess I do.”

  “He’s a good man, Michael. He is worth saving more than anyone I have ever known.” Susan rose from the table and reached in her pocket. She pulled out a four-by-six picture and handed it to him. “Good night.” And she turned and left the room.

  Michael watched her walk down the long marble hallway before finally looking at the picture. It was of a young couple. Michael recognized the man, hair black as night, the build of an athlete. But the woman…a girl really, a teenager. Her blue eyes stared from the picture into his soul. Michael didn’t need to ask to know who it was. She was prettier than he expected. And it felt odd. She was less than half his age when this picture was taken; she looked like a child. Michael couldn’t imagine the fear she felt, being pregnant at such a young age. He knew she had died in childbirth, bringing him into the world as she was leaving it: a pair of souls passing each other on the road to Heaven. She was robbed of her years, just like Mary. Michael felt a handful of emotions from love, to pain, to regret, and finally appreciation.

  He realized that Susan had the frame of mind to find the picture before she left the town house back in Boston. Through all her screaming and ranting and raving, she still had the presence of thought to do something kind. Busch’s suspicions about her were right. Her sandpaper personality was a facade, a shield against pain.

  Michael looked up, but Susan hadn’t lingered; she was already off to bed. He looked at the picture of his mother and father one more time before tucking it in his pocket next to Mary’s letter.

  Chapter 25

  Julian stood in the middle of the ballroom dressed in a new Armani tuxedo, with a beautiful brunette draped on his arm. Sheila was from Texas. Long legged, with a face chiseled by the best Beverly Hills surgeon h
er daddy’s money could buy. She had flown in to personally deliver her check to this man of God.

  She was raised Protestant, a strict, wealthy American religious upbringing. But the rhetoric espoused at Stanford University had forced her to try and reconcile the disparities of God and science. She had lost her faith and turned her back on her Church for ten years. But as she grew older and watched her third husband walk out the door, she knew she needed God again. But instead of God she found something better: she found Julian. He catered to all her needs—spiritual, medical, physical. And he came with the benefits of pharmaceuticals and good looks. Not to mention his passion in the bedroom.

  She watched as he left her side, walking across the ballroom floor, taking the stairs up to the first landing, where he stood before his crowd of two hundred guests, all successful, all wealthy, all in black tie, looking up at him in anticipation of his words. They were a mixture of serious academics, eccentric celebutards, and titans of industry; wayward souls in search of something to embrace. Each held sway in their respective fields of expertise, in their circles of influence, but here, to Julian, they all gladly played second fiddle, hoping for a private moment of wisdom that could change their lives. Though from different backgrounds, there was a commonality in their conduct and dress. Tuxedoed and gowned. Each striving to distinguish. Dressing to impress. To impress Julian, to impress each other, to impress God.

  They had all managed to work purple accents into their attire: cummerbunds, suspenders, socks, ties, gowns, jewelry, hairpieces. And not just any purple; Tyrian purple, the original purple from a dye whose expense in ancient times was far greater than gold. Hence it became the color of royalty, hence the color of God’s Truth.

  With all religions, there is reverential jewelry, symbols—crosses, crucifixes, stars of David—worn in pride of identity with one’s beliefs. All of society had succumbed to a similar custom, wearing rubber bracelets or colored ribbons on lapels in solidarity with a cause. And God’s Truth was no different. They had their symbols, they had their holy keepsake. It was a bastardization of iconic symbology. A symbol worn on bejeweled necklaces, on gold signet rings. An amalgam of the icon for infinity, the atomic symbol of swirling atoms, and the cross of Christ, all against a background of Tyrian purple, the color that had become the sign of pride for one’s celebration of God’s Truth.

  Julian took in his festive, wealthy crowd, inwardly smiling, outwardly humble. He bowed his head, placed his fingers against his temples, rubbing gently as if focusing his mind. The room grew silent, the moment held until he finally lifted his head and looked out at his audience.

  “As we move through life, we take for granted the promise of tomorrow, the gift of life that has been bestowed upon us,” Julian said as he raised his arms outstretched to his flock, his hands animated as if they spoke every word. “We forget that our flesh is but mortal, that our hearts are fragile and finite. How often has man prayed in vain at the bedside of a parent as he watched them take their last breath, while he stood by helpless in his grief and sorrow?” Julian paused, looking about the room. “If you could do anything to save your mother, your father, how far would you go?

  “Death: it is a fate that awaits us all. While the Bible speaks of the hereafter we must remember one of the Good Book’s greatest proverbs…God helps those who help themselves. We speak of sacrifice, of forgoing immediate pleasure for the promise of future benefits; we do it in business, we do it in life, some even do it in their religions.

  “Now before I leave you this evening, I want you to think on a topic. What if this was your last day, what if you knew with pure conviction that there was no tomorrow? What if you knew you only had twenty-four hours left to live? Imagine yourself in this place, for it is a place we will all arrive at despite our best efforts. Close your eyes and imagine that you are at your end of days, your accumulation of experiences at their conclusion. Do you suddenly embrace God, hoping to get to Heaven, do you reflect on your life, the summation of your collective events or…do you look for a way to live just one more day?” He looked about the room, every ear drawn to him, all in rapt attention. “If you could do anything to save yourself, how far would you go? What would you do?

  “Now ponder this…if you were given the opportunity to buy one more day, one more week, or even one more year to live; if you were able to purchase ten more years…what would the value of that be? What price would you place on life?” Julian paused and looked down at the vast crowd of parishioners, seeming to make eye contact with all who waited with bated breath. He finally raised his glass. “Cent’anni.”

  And in an almost choreographed response, the entire crowd raised their glasses, thunderously calling out, “Cent’anni.”

  Julian took Sheila by the arm; they walked back down the stairs and through the crowd that silently parted for him in respect. “I would pay anything for my mother to have lived another year,” Sheila whispered in his ear. “Is your mother still alive?”

  Julian turned to her and looked deep into her eyes. “I don’t know.”

  Genevieve’s eyes flashed open. There was no sense of panic about her. She did not pull at her restraints or try to rise from the gurney. Her breathing was deep and steady as she looked about her surroundings. The medical facility was pure white, harsh in appearance even under the dim lights. The antiseptic smell assaulted her senses as she tried to get an idea of her location.

  She had awoken only twice since her abduction, once while being loaded onto a plane and once upon arrival at wherever here was. Each time was only momentary, never allowing her to gain her bearings before the large man drugged her again. Her concept of time was completely lost as she tried to regain focus through the fog that clouded her thoughts. She did not know where she was or who her kidnappers were, but their goals were obvious, the same as Julian’s: getting the Albero della Vita, the golden box that she wished was erased from history.

  She had felt nothing but betrayed by Julian. He had stolen everything from her, leaving her with an utter emptiness she hadn’t felt since the loss of her husband. He had died many years ago, and since then she had wandered through life, never looking for love again as the pain of loss still lingered despite the drawing of time. But it was through the joy of mothering that she found herself again, that her heart was filled with warmth. But the warmth was tempered, made bittersweet as it concerned Julian. He had been troubled since birth, an emotionally fragile child whose cruelty never abated.

  Her kidnapper walked in the room to find her awake. Without a word, he walked to a medical cabinet, withdrew an IV bag, and stepped to Genevieve’s bedside. He briefly looked down at her with troubled eyes, his face filled with pain. He silently switched her IV bag, looked at her briefly, and left the room. As the IV drip flowed, Genevieve could feel the fog gathering in her mind, pulling her back toward sleep. And she thought of Michael, saying a brief prayer that he found his father, that he received the painting and the map that she had left for him but was unable to tell him about, her kidnappers snatching her before she could explain to Michael the true significance of the map within the painting.

  And as her eyes fell shut, her mind once again encased in a drug-induced sleep, a single tear rolled down her face. Not for herself or her imprisonment, but for the danger she had placed Michael in. For he had no idea what surrounded the map within The Eternal or the mystery of the Albero della Vita. A box that one of history’s most evil men, Ivan the Terrible, deemed should be hidden away for all eternity. A box whose contents were too horrible for even the most horrible of men.

  Chapter 26

  Beneath the city of Moscow is a legend. A city under a city. A world that runs as much as twelve levels deep, comprising tunnels and labyrinths, bomb shelters and catacombs, ancient passages and raging rivers. There are hidden apartments just a few feet below the surface; graveyards three hundred feet down, rumored to be below even Hell itself. And like all cities, Moscow’s subterranean populace is somewhat different than its terres
trial counterpart: Roma—those that some people still refer to as Gypsies—squatters and prostitutes, gangs, political refugees, and the homeless. The city of Moscow forbids ex-cons to reside within the city, forcing former criminals who wish to remain to literally go underground.

  The eight-hundred-and-fifty-year-old city, built on alluvial soil, turned out to be perfect for those who chose to build down instead of up. Starting with Ivan the Terrible’s grandparents, each of the city’s rulers had left their underground mark in one way, shape, or form, constructing vaults to hide their treasures, graveyards for those who opposed them, palatial abodes as safe houses during a coup, churches for worship, secret apartments for clandestine affairs, storage depots for weapons. Stalin built an underground railroad for moving his loyal party officials, weapons, and troops in and out of the city. Peter the Great spent part of his childhood in the lost Tsarina chambers. Catherine the Great brought in Italian craftsmen to channel the Neglinnaya River into enormous brick-lined underground canals.

  Michael, Busch, and Fetisov stood under a high brick archway along the banks of a man-made canal. Before them was a giant grotto, its rounded ceiling reaching upward twenty-five feet. The bright lamps that were built into their respective miner’s helmets painted dancing shadows along the red-brick walls. Centered around a large central pool were seven man-made rivers, each leading off into its own separate tunnel.

  They had entered the vast array of passages from a drainage pipe in the back of a restaurant in Kitai Gorod—the Chinatown of Moscow, though there never had been any Chinese there—which sat a mile from the Kremlin. Nikolai Fetisov, with his one good eye, had led the way through a series of tunnels whose height and construction varied with each step. Above them were large conduits that carried steam, electricity, and probably the wiring for hidden listening devices dating back to the times of the KGB. The Russian read from a small hand-drawn map, its red Cyrillic markings already smudged. He had procured it from the tunnel rats with a payment the seller did not anticipate: his own life.