The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  “What’s above us? Where did they take her?” Busch asked as he looked up and down the vacant hall, hoping Nikolai was right about the lack of personnel at this hour.

  Nikolai walked briskly down the hall, examining each door as he went. “It’s the depot for official cars and trucks.” He finally found what he was looking for and opened the door to the fire stairs. They raced up and stopped at the sublevel three door. “This floor is going to have people wandering about; lots of people.”

  “Guards?”

  Nikolai shook his head. “No, military.” And he opened the door.

  Hearing the chaos of gunfire over the radio, Michael fell back into instinct. Without thought, he abandoned their air tanks, tucked the radio away, grabbed the dive bags, pony bottles, and Susan, and in less than fifteen seconds was on the run. The light from his helmet led the way through the pathways and tunnels. On foot, on hands and knees, even belly crawling, they charged along the half-mile underground route following his painted bread crumbs back to the Grotto of Tsars.

  “What about Paul?” Susan asked, panic filling her eyes.

  “Don’t worry.”

  “How can you say that? Those were gunshots,” she said through fits of breathing.

  Michael ignored her question. He wasn’t going to waste any breath on an answer. He and Paul had agreed if things fell apart or one of them ran into trouble that the other was to get out, get to safety. Michael’s mind was a jumble of nerves and questions, though; he didn’t know if Busch was doing the shooting or being shot at. But one thing was certain in his mind: there was much more to Fetisov than either of them knew. If Busch wasn’t in grave danger yet, he would be.

  What Susan didn’t know, what she couldn’t know, was that Michael would never leave his friend behind. As soon as he got Susan and the box safely away, he would be back. No matter what it took, no matter the price, even if he had to give his life, he would save his friend.

  Michael’s lungs were burning; what had taken them a half-hour on the way in had taken less than ten minutes on the way out. Michael briefly glanced back at Susan, amazed at her stamina. She didn’t panic or complain, but there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes: she was running for her life.

  The two dive bags attached at Michael’s hip pounded his legs with every stride. But the overwhelming thought in Michael’s mind was not the pain or the desperation of the moment, it was his friend’s warning. It was a simple statement and couldn’t have been clearer. Don’t open the box.

  Up ahead was the grotto. Michael had yet to see it but he heard it: the flow of the water echoing off the cavern. And then it was there: Michael’s and Susan’s helmet lights bounced off the water’s dark surface, sending eerie reflections bouncing around like ghosts across the walls. Michael prayed he wouldn’t lose his footing along the rocky path as he picked up his pace. Without slowing, Michael reached into his bag and pulled out a pony bottle; he handed the small air container back to Susan and pulled one out for himself.

  They approached the water’s edge, only twenty feet now. Without hesitation, without breaking stride, they each stuffed the air bottles in their mouths, leapt into the pool of water, and disappeared under the surface.

  The enormous garage stretched out for as far as the eye could see. Situated directly below the Arsenal—home of the Presidential Regiment, the Kremlin Guard—it was filled with black Mercedes limos, panel trucks, and SUVs. There were army trucks and even a handful of tanks.

  A red strobe illuminated the darkened garage and drew Busch’s attention down an aisle where they saw the gurney being loaded into an ambulance.

  “Let’s go,” Fetisov whispered.

  Busch turned to see Fetisov slipping into a dark-green jeep. Busch crouched low and crept over to the vehicle. As he pulled open the passenger door, Fetisov started it up with the key that sat in the ignition.

  “Are you crazy? How are we going to get out of here?”

  “Hey.” The voice startled both of them. It came from Busch’s radio. Busch pulled it from his waist clip.

  “Michael? Where the hell are you?”

  “We’re on Kremlyovskaya. Where are you? Are you all right?”

  Fetisov grabbed the radio out of Busch’s hand. “Listen to me. Get over to Nikolskaya Tower. On the far northeast side by Red Square An ambulance is going to be coming out of the gate any minute. Do not let it out of your sight.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Someone else grabbed Genevieve.”

  “We don’t know the streets,” Michael said, his voice filled with a mounting anger.

  “That doesn’t matter, just stay on them. The tower is on the opposite side of the Historical Museum.”

  Three soldiers on their rounds began walking toward the jeep. Busch looked at Nikolai and indicated the approaching soldiers.

  “Whatever you do,” Nikolai continued into the radio, “don’t lose that ambulance. If they get loose in the city, she will be gone for good.”

  And the three guards saw Fetisov and Busch. They charged the SUV, their rifles held high, aiming as they began yelling. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, more guards arrived and before they knew it, Busch and Nikolai were surrounded by twenty troops with raised rifles shouting for them to exit the vehicle.

  Chapter 43

  In a single motion, Michael and Susan slid across the backseat of the car as Martin drove at breakneck speed around the corner, racing for the far gate of the Kremlin. They had surfaced in the Moskva River after riding out the third canal, with a pony bottle in each of their mouths. They rode downstream for a mile, staying underwater, before finally pulling themselves out at the rendezvous point: an old overgrown patch of thatch and grass that surrounded an old dock. Martin lay in wait, the doors open, the engine running. The car was a ZiL, the luxury car of Russia whose status had long been replaced by Range Rovers and Jaguars. It was large and boxy with a 380-horsepower engine that sounded and performed like a jet. Though the black vehicle was a convertible, Martin left the top up to avoid anyone seeing his wet passengers changing out of their dive gear.

  Martin cut along the Manezhnaya shosse, through the early morning traffic, and took the exit toward Red Square. He pushed the engine, careening up the service ramp, praying he wouldn’t be nabbed by the Russian traffic police.

  The car came to a screeching halt fifty yards before the Nikolskaya Tower. They all waited with baited breath for the Kremlin gates to open; Martin kept his foot on the gas, his hands on the wheel as if waiting for the green flag.

  “Both of you out,” Michael said.

  “What?” Susan turned to Michael as Martin looked back at him from the driver’s seat.

  Michael pulled the satchel with the gold box from the dive bag and handed it to Susan. “Martin, grab a cab, take Susan back to the hotel, and go get the plane ready. We are going to need to make a quick exit.”

  Martin silently nodded.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Susan said, holding up the satchel.

  “Don’t let it out of your sight. And no matter what,” Michael said repeating Busch’s warning, “don’t open it.”

  Martin was already out of the door, standing there, waiting for Susan.

  Susan remained in the car, staring at Michael, a realization washing over her face. “You won’t turn this over to Zivera, will you?”

  Michael didn’t need to answer.

  “How could you do that to Stephen?” she asked, her voice thick with confusion. “He’s your father.”

  Michael reached out, placing his hand on her shoulder. Susan tried to pull away in disgust, but Michael grabbed her and pulled her back. “I have no intention of letting my father die. I just ask that you have faith in me.”

  Susan looked deep into Michael’s eyes. Her body relaxed with relief. It was an unspoken moment, both of them lost. Susan reached out and touched his face, gentle, tender, and she smiled. “I believe in you…” Her voice trailed off to a whisper.

  Michael l
ooked at Susan and leaned into her. He kissed her softly on the lips. Not lustful; delicate, sensual, caring.

  And the door opened, Martin stood there, holding it more to interrupt them than as a courtesy.

  “You guard that box for me,” Michael said quietly as he stared at Susan. “Remember what I said.”

  “Don’t open it,” Susan whispered. “I know.”

  The moment finally broke and they stepped out of the car. “Martin, could you take my gear back to the plane?” Michael said as he passed him his dive bag.

  “Of course.” Martin threw the heavy bag over his shoulder.

  “Don’t know if I will be needing it anymore, but it’s always good to be prepared.”

  “Once you find Genevieve, do you have a plan for getting Stephen back?”

  “Of course,” Michael said.

  “Do you mind sharing it?”

  Michael smiled at her and shook his head no.

  Susan looked at him a moment with trust in her eyes and nodded. “You be careful,” she whispered, leaning into Michael’s space.

  “Don’t be getting on your high horse, counselor, and not listening to what Martin tells you to do.” Michael looked at Martin, who nodded back.

  Michael hopped in the driver’s side. He watched as Susan and Martin crossed the street. He wrapped his hands on the steering wheel, grasping it in a white-knuckled grip, and revved the engine.

  Twenty rifles were held high, aimed at Busch and Fetisov. “Ne dvigatsya,” the lead guard yelled in Russian.

  “I may not speak the language, but that either means, ‘Get out of the car’ or ‘Prepare to die,’” Busch said.

  Through the windshield, they could see the ambulance with Genevieve pulling out, the two-toned horn reverberating through the enormous garage.

  Fetisov looked at Busch and smiled. He took off his thick glasses and, to Busch’s shock, removed the mop of unnatural black hair to reveal a severe crew cut. His appearance was entirely different: his head was a like a slab of granite, covered in a bristle of gray hair. Busch half expected him to remove a milky contact lens from his bad eye, but that was not part of the disguise.

  Fetisov rolled down the window and the demeanor of the troops turned from aggressive superiority to submissive fear. The entire group of twenty came to attention and snapped their arms up in a unison salute. The lead soldier began speaking in quick, clipped Russian.

  And to Busch’s surprise, Nikolai began speaking back as if they knew each other.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Busch said.

  Nikolai turned to Busch.

  “General or colonel?”

  Nikolai smiled. “General.” He rolled up the window and hit the gas. The jeep tires screeched as Nikolai raced out of the garage.

  Michael sat in the car, holding tight to the wheel, revving the engine, waiting to give chase to the ambulance that would be pulling out at any minute. He stared at the still-lingering exhaust trail left by the twenty-year-old cab; Martin wasted no time in getting Susan out of the area. Michael was thankful for his presence, he was truly a resourceful man with only Susan’s best interest at heart.

  The heavy wooden gates before Michael began to swing open, slowly, as if inhaling, and then, without warning, an ambulance exploded out of the gate, its tires screeching on the roadway.

  Michael hit the gas of the ZiL and raced off behind the ambulance. The emergency vehicle, its red and blue lights flashing, its siren crying out, parted the traffic like a wedge along its route, weaving in between cars, riding the shoulder, and hopping back on the roadway. Michael stayed two car lengths back, his car mimicking every swerve and brake of the ambulance ahead, already flying at eighty mphs. Michael was surprised that there were no cars escorting the vehicle, riding backup to take out pursuers like Michael. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be met with resistance; Michael remained alert, waiting for a hail of bullets to erupt from the ambulance window at any second.

  Someone had gotten the jump on Busch and Nikolai; Michael couldn’t imagine who could have penetrated the Kremlin and made off with Genevieve. His thoughts were a jumble as he pondered who else was after her: it could be anyone. He couldn’t imagine the terror, the confusion she was feeling, her mind surely on the verge of a breakdown as she was physically hijacked at the moment she was to be saved.

  Michael glanced in the rearview mirror, not for police, not for Kremlin guards, but for Busch and Fetisov, wondering why they had yet to join the chase.

  Michael was thankful that he had left Susan behind. He had already exposed her to too much danger. And as much as he wanted to deny it, he realized he was starting to care about her. As much as she pissed him off, there was something about her that tugged at his heart. Michael was seeing Susan in a far different light. He initially judged her a coarse woman, guarded to the point of impenetrability; but he found that deep down, she was tender and vulnerable. He felt his heart skip a beat when he thought of her and maybe, if he was lucky and he survived the ordeals ahead of him, he would see her again, safe from this mess.

  He was glad she wasn’t with him now, though, as he raced through the unfamiliar streets of Moscow, his destination uncertain. Susan would distract him and he couldn’t afford to be bothered by her dark eyes right now. His decisions needed to remain unquestioned by others; his attention focused and acute.

  Michael remained glued to the rear of the ambulance as they headed up Pilonosky ulitsa. He gripped the wheel even tighter as they made a sharp left onto Magorskya prospekt. The driver of the ambulance had to be aware of his tail by now, yet there was no evidence that he was doing anything to shake Michael, to stop him.

  The traffic flow in early morning Moscow began growing congested with rush hour. Michael was thankful for the increasing density as it seemed to slow his quarry just a bit. It had been two minutes and Michael had yet to hear from Busch or Nikolai. He prayed that they hadn’t been caught within the Kremlin; the punishment would be swift and nothing short of death. Michael was suddenly filled with guilt. His decision to risk two simultaneous thefts had forced Nikolai and Busch to pull a job they were unprepared to complete. It was a mistake, one that they were now paying for. Michael should have gone in alone, rescued Genevieve, and ventured back later for the box. In hindsight, it was foolish and desperate.

  The radio in his pocket startled him as it squeaked to life. “Where are you?” Busch’s voice called.

  Michael grabbed the radio as he gripped the wheel with one hand. The relief Busch’s voice brought him was so overwhelming that he almost lost the ambulance as he whizzed by several glass towers. Michael pressed the radio’s button. “Shit, I don’t know,” he finally shouted. “I just passed three large glass buildings.”

  “Are you on Puhnik?” Nikolai’s voice cut in.

  Michael looked around again, but the signs were in unintelligible Cyrillic. “Are you kidding me? I have no idea.” Michael’s voice was boiling with frustration.

  “You drive, let Susan navigate.”

  “I sent her back to the hotel.”

  Nikolai paused, then, “All right, listen. What direction are you going?”

  “We’re changing direction every thirty seconds. Hell, I think we’re going west.” Michael then saw the river up ahead, and the ambulance veered right, heading for a bridge adorned in banners. “The Moskva River is on my left, we’re heading for a green bridge lined with flags.”

  “Stay on him,” Nikolai shot back. “We’re going to work away in front of you and cut in a few streets up to box him in.”

  The ambulance flew over the short bridge spanning the boat-lined Moskva River, Michael tight on his tail. Traffic began to grow in both directions, a few joggers out for their morning run. The ambulance crossed going seventy when its taillights suddenly lit up, smoke rising from its locked-up wheels. As they drove down the other side, everything came to a jarring halt. Cars were packed in like sardines, thick and congested. Traffic barely inching along. The ambulance’s siren crie
d out but there was nowhere for anyone to go. Frustrated commuters waved out their windows to no one in particular, cursing the world and the ambulance’s relentless lights and sirens. Without warning, a car cut in front of Michael, missing him by inches. Michael wasn’t concerned; the ambulance wasn’t going anywhere. But then another car cut in and then another. It was as if the collective consciousness of drivers saw a sucker in their midst and would exploit his weakness, his fear of having his fender bumped. Another car tried to cut in but Michael hit the gas and the brake, causing the car to jerk forward in fits and starts. He was willing to ram anyone who got in his way; he wasn’t about to lose the ambulance to a bunch of aggressive commuters. Michael picked up the radio. “No need to hurry,” he said. “Everything is jammed up on the far side of the bridge.”

  “That will at least give us a few minutes to catch up and get in front of you,” Nikolai said, his Russian accent garbling his voice through the radio’s heavy static. “If he makes a move, I don’t care if you have to drive on the sidewalk and run over a bunch of old ladies, you stay on his ass. We can’t afford to lose him.”

  “You mind telling me what happened back there?” Michael asked already knowing that Fetisov had betrayed them by sending Lexie into the Liberia and unwittingly to his death.

  “Tell me you found the box, ’cause there is no way we are getting back in the Kremlin,” Nikolai said.

  “Yeah, we found it.” Michael restrained his anger, fearful for Busch, who was unwittingly sitting in a trap.

  “Where?”

  “Under the Kremlin.” Michael wasn’t about to share the location of the Liberia or the fact that Lexie was dead.

  “Obviously. Thanks for the insight. If you get picked up by the police you can’t let it fall into their hands.”