The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  “Relax.” Michael wouldn’t allude to Susan. He held tight with his left hand to the wheel. The ambulance was now five cars ahead in the thick of slow-moving traffic. “The box is safe. Now, you mind telling me what the hell happened down there?” Michael said into the radio. The mass of cars began to move as one, not fast, but it was movement, creeping along at five miles per hour.

  “Well, if you want to talk about a cluster—”

  The ambulance suddenly turned left, its wheels screeching as it took off down a vacant street. Michael stuffed the radio in his pocket and peeled off right behind the ambulance. He paid no mind to Fetisov’s garbled answer coming from his pocket.

  Nikolai drove the dark-green jeep over the Putinskaya bridge. As they made a right off the exit ramp, Busch saw them: army trucks, police cruisers, lights flashing as they raced up the Kremlyovskaya highway on the far side of the river. They were less than a mile away. Busch’s heart froze. There was no question in his mind who they were after.

  “How connected are you?” Busch said as looked over his shoulder.

  Nikolai followed his line of sight. “Chërt voz’mí!”

  The traffic ahead of them fell to a virtual stop; Busch could barely contain himself from getting out of the car and running. He hit the button on his radio. “Michael, there’s a convoy of hell coming our way. Looks like army, police, and who knows what.”

  Nikolai snatched the radio from Busch’s hands. “Michael, listen to me, you’ve got to stop that ambulance. We’re not going to get to you in time and if he hits the main highway he will leave you far behind and we’ll never see Genevieve again.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Michael shot back.

  Nikolai paused a moment and looked at Busch. He finally raised the radio to his lips and softly said, “Any way you can.”

  Ninety mph. The ambulance was now opening up, making a move. Michael rode right on the tail of the emergency vehicle. He was so close he could see the detail of the corrosion on the tailpipe. The ambulance zigzagged around vehicles that failed to yield, Michael matching him turn for turn. Michael had to get him back into the side streets if he had any chance of catching up.

  Michael gunned the engine of the ZiL, its eight cylinders kicking into overdrive with a deep growl. He ran up along the right side of the ambulance. He looked ahead: one hundred yards up, there was an entrance to a side street. Michael began to pull ahead, just slightly, his right fender barely passing the front of the ambulance. He waited to make his move. The side street was fifty yards off, closing quick. Michael suddenly jerked the wheel to the right, scraping the ambulance and forcing him into the curb. The ambulance’s brakes locked up and the vehicle fell right into Michael’s plan. It skidded in a ninety-degree turn and raced down the side road that ran perpendicular to the main thoroughfare.

  The side streets were narrow and confined. The ambulance was now on the run; it no longer obeyed traffic signs, it gave no quarter to pedestrians. Its siren chittered and wailed its warning to anyone and everything in its path. Michael was less than a car length behind. If he was somehow able to stop the ambulance, he had no idea how many thugs he would face, and his only weapon was a knife that was still strapped to his calf, having forgone the guns. He hated being faced with the unknown.

  Michael again raced up alongside the ambulance. This time he had no intention to direct it left or right. He meant to bring it to a stop no matter what it took.

  Michael pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, ramming his front fender into the left rear side of the emergency vehicle. The ambulance fishtailed out to the right, the driver fighting with all his might to regain control, but it was too late, the ambulance turned sideways, skidding down the road at a right angle. And then the driver over-compensated, spinning back to the left almost all the way around, and before the driver could correct his motion, Michael rammed him again. The large vehicle spun wildly and smashed headlong into the side wall of an old building. Michael locked up his brakes and came to a screaming halt adjacent to the ambulance. There was no sign of Busch and Nikolai. He tried the radio but got no response. He couldn’t wait. He had no idea if Genevieve was injured in the accident, but, no matter her condition, he would have to grab her and get out of there before the police came. He hopped out of the car and opened the ZiL’s rear door closest to the ambulance.

  Michael grabbed both rear handles of the ambulance and ripped open the doors. In the front seat, the driver lay slumped over the steering wheel, gasping for air. He wiped blood from his forehead with a wobbly hand before finally losing consciousness. The gurney before Michael was locked in place in the rear of the ambulance. Michael looked at the medical tools spread around the vehicle that had been jarred from their positions by the crash. Scalpels and gauze pads littered the floor, the metal cabinet doors hung open, supplies hanging out, an oxygen tank in the corner hissed, its valve cracked and bent.

  And then panic hit Michael, his thoughts a flurry of confusion. For the gurney was empty. Genevieve wasn’t there.

  Fetisov and Busch were at a standstill. The poorly tuned engine of the army jeep created a constant heavy vibration throughout the vehicle. The approaching sirens fought to drown out Busch’s thoughts. He looked at Nikolai, who remained focused on the traffic ahead. He wondered how much it took to buy a man’s allegiance and get him to betray his country. Generals—men of the highest command—were lifers, those who dedicated their entire existence for the love of their homeland. And yet here was a man who must have served the better part of his life both during and after the Cold War for Mother Russia, who seemed to have sold his loyalty to the highest bidder. Now, with what sounded like the entire Russian army on their tail, Fetisov showed no sign of fear, no sign of any emotion, for that matter. There was not an ounce of panic in him, no nervous drumming of the fingers, no fidgeting in his seat, no checking his weapon—all instinctive responses to danger and he exhibited none of them. A lifetime of staunch command had expertly trained him to handle any situation with grace.

  Busch looked over his shoulder again at the bridge. The siren’s wail was deafening yet there was no visual sign of their approach, no onlookers, gawkers, or rubberneckers, no cars jockeying to get out of the way. Then the sound started to fade, just a bit, but fading nonetheless. The police and army must have passed by unseen on an adjacent street.

  And then it all came together. The little pieces. The little suspicions. Nikolai’s lack of fear.

  Busch slowly raised his gun to Nikolai. “You don’t have a sick niece, do you?”

  Nikolai looked at Busch. His good eye was suddenly cold, devoid of its prior mirth. “I do, but I couldn’t care less if she lives or dies.”

  “Who are you really working for?” Busch said through gritted teeth.

  “Same people as always.” Nikolai looked back out at the traffic, ignoring the gun barrel.

  Busch cocked his gun. “Zivera never had any intention of releasing Michael’s father, did he?”

  “You really thought someone who is on the world stage could afford loose ends?”

  “Genevieve isn’t in the ambulance, is she?” Busch asked as he tightened his grip on his gun. “The ambulance was just a decoy to lure us away from the Kremlin.”

  “My men slipped out the main gate ten minutes ago. They are already tucking her into her seat on a plane.”

  “Why did you need us, then?”

  “Don’t feel disappointed, you had a purpose. We had no idea where to look for Ivan’s Liberia, but Michael, he had the map. He had the skills. And as for Genevieve, well, we thought if you saved her instead of us, we would have someone to blame everything on. Cowboy Americans always make for good press. No one would suspect a good Russian general.” Nikolai put the truck in gear; the traffic was beginning to inch forward. “Your role in this is done. We have what we came for.”

  The siren’s ever-present cry no longer scared Busch, it was this man sitting next to him. Busch kept his eye on Nikolai, gra
bbed the keys, turned off the jeep, and threw the keys out of the window. “That’s where you are wrong. You don’t have the box.”

  “Neither do you. And I suspect neither does Michael.”

  Busch realized he probably sent it with Susan and she was in the open.

  “I don’t think it will be that hard to pry the box from Susan’s fingers, whether they are living or dead. He was pretty foolish to entrust it to her.”

  “You’ll be hung for betraying your country,” Busch growled.

  Nikolai smiled. “Who said I betrayed my country? You and Michael will be blamed for everything. Breaking into the Kremlin, raiding historical antiquities, killing Russia’s most prominent doctors. I saw it all,” Nikolai said with a wink and a smile. “Hell, I’ll be a hero. I’ll retire with both fortune and fame now.”

  Busch felt the betrayal slice through his heart. Zivera bought himself a Russian general not only to keep tabs on him and Michael, but also to act as their executioner when the job was done.

  Suddenly, the ever-present whine of the sirens stopped. They didn’t fade away. They stopped dead. The silence startled Busch. He glared at Nikolai, pressing the barrel of his gun into the man’s head, and reached for his radio. “Michael? Are you there?” But Busch already knew there wouldn’t be an answer. If they hadn’t killed Michael yet, it wouldn’t be long. And Nikolai Fetisov led Michael to the slaughter, allowed him to do their bidding and fed him to the wolves.

  Busch’s eyes were aflame with anger as he stared at Fetisov, the one responsible for Michael’s impending death. Nikolai would walk away without guilt, without arrest, without being held responsible.

  The rage finally overcame Busch and he pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed within the vehicle, the noise tearing at Busch’s eardrums, the smoke floating out of the gun barrel drifting about the truck’s interior.

  Yet Nikolai still sat there. His smile slowly dissolved until it was replaced by anger.

  “You think I would put real bullets in that gun?”

  Busch shook with rage as he stared into the cold eyes of the Russian general. The gun that Busch had worn at his side throughout the last day, the gun he used in a firefight, the gun that gave him comfort: every cartridge he slammed into it was filled with blanks. He was lucky he had lived this long.

  Fetisov reached for his gun, but Busch grabbed his wrist, twisting the gun from his hand, and it fell to the floor. He slammed his fist into Fetisov’s face again and again, rendering the Russian general a bloody mess. Busch grabbed him around the neck and began squeezing.

  “Where will you go?” Nikolai gasped, his bloody face turning crimson. “You are a fugitive in a foreign country with no grasp of the language.”

  As much as Busch wanted to kill the man before him, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Despite having watched him gun down a team of doctors, despite the fact that he had betrayed him and Michael, Busch couldn’t bring himself to kill Nikolai Fetisov.

  Without another thought, Busch kicked open the side door of the jeep and ran off into the Moscow morning.

  Michael steadied himself on the door. The approaching sirens were growing to a deafening shrill. He was out of time, he had to get out of what was now obviously a trap. He leapt back into his car and hit the gas, but it was too late. A fleet of Russian army trucks came racing up the street in front of him while police cars came in from behind. He looked to run, but there was nowhere to go. His pursuers came to a stop, surrounding him five deep. The emerging troops took up positions, their guns held high and at the ready. A crowd had begun to gather in the distance. Michael could only imagine they were murmuring about the days of old and how commonplace this must have been back then. But this was now; this was the new Russia, things like this were not supposed to happen. The force around him—it appeared fifty strong—waited with itchy trigger fingers for Michael to make a move. But that wasn’t about to happen. Michael stepped from the car, his hands raised.

  Not a word was said, not an order given. Michael thought it odd as he stood there with his hands held up. These troops were waiting for someone, someone who was in charge. Someone who had orchestrated his capture.

  Then Michael saw him. The man walked toward Michael, his black hair flecked with silver, the tendons bulging on his muscular neck. He carried a large pistol in each hand; tattoos on his forearms glistened in the morning sun. He said nothing as he approached. The mass of soldiers parted in deference as he marched right up to Michael, stopping only inches from his face. Michael had never seen such hatred in anyone.

  “My name is Raechen.” The man’s Russian accent was subtle. “Remember it. So when God asks you who sent you, you can tell him.” Raechen raised his right arm and with a tremendous force slammed Michael in the side of the head, knocking him out cold.

  Chapter 44

  Stephen Kelley stood in the marble shower, letting the hot water roll off his back, wishing it could wash away the last few days. He was catered to like a VIP in a fine hotel. Elegant meals, daily newspapers, access to a fully outfitted private gym. The pool temperature was to his liking and the pool table in the library exclusively his.

  He had spent the first day in this castle confused and angry, enraged at his captors, at his predicament. Most of the time he just stared from the bedroom balcony at the vast blue ocean and the lone enormous yacht that sat at anchor one mile offshore. And he blamed only one person for his situation.

  Ever since he had learned Michael was a thief, he felt a profound shame that someone of his blood would ever be involved in such lawlessness. How could he have two sons so different? Stephen had vowed on the day he learned of Michael’s arrest that he would forget about him, write him off as a mistake, excise him from his heart.

  Even after his son Peter died, Steven didn’t change his mind. Even though Michael was his only living flesh and blood, he would not cross that boundary. But deep down, he knew his rejection of Michael was only a convenient way of avoiding his guilt, to forgo his fate of having to look into the eyes of the son he had forsaken. It was for this reason he never took down the pictures in his safe room at home; removing the photos would be turning his back on Michael again, manifesting his rejection, and this time it would be eternal.

  On the second day of his captivity, Stephen pondered his own life, his triumphs and failures both personal and professional. He had spent his life always reaching for something: success, money, ways to stay fit. Never stopping to live in the moment, never pausing to appreciate what he had, always looking to the future, the what-if instead of the now. And then his son Peter, his one true joy in life since his wife died, slipped away. A father’s dream turned to nightmare. There would be no future to look to, no one to share it with. He pondered his losses, his solitude. He lost one son to death, one son to desertion; Stephen couldn’t help thinking the loss of Peter was punishment for his abandonment, for turning his back on Michael, and his fate was to be alone in the world with an empty heart. There was no longer a value to living and he had resigned himself to the fact that whether he lived or died it no longer mattered.

  Mary St. Pierre arrived at his office over a year ago, seeking his assistance to find Michael’s father. Stephen’s shrewd poker face kept Mary from learning the truth, or seeing the shock in his eyes. Stephen was floored by the coincidence and though he still had yet to come to terms with the crimes Michael committed, Mary’s appearance, her illness, couldn’t help softening his heart.

  And then Genevieve Zivera appeared unannounced in his office, carrying a lockbox. In the mere hour they spent together, Stephen gained a profound respect for her. Here was a woman who was seeking to unite a father with a son. And though she appeared reserved and demure, she was beyond resourceful, as she had somehow discovered that he was Michael’s father. She spoke so highly of Michael: of his unselfish ways, of the pain he was going through with the loss of his wife. And, in a way, it angered Stephen; she had humanized Michael, added depth of character to him, debunked assumptions made. S
he made Stephen see the good in Michael, she re-instilled in him the paternal instinct that had been purged from his heart years earlier. She said that he might come calling someday for the metal box and asked Stephen to guard it well until such time.

  And so when Kelley answered the door three mornings earlier and saw the man, the son he only knew from pictures, standing in his doorway, it sent a shiver up his spine, for his fate had caught up with him. While he wanted to reach out and embrace Michael, his reaction was anything but paternal. He initially denied him, ignored him, sent him away only to be overcome with immediate regret for not facing what he feared most in life: the eyes of the son he gave away.

  Their brief meeting, the beginning of a reconciliation, was cruelly interrupted by Zivera, who was playing Michael’s heart to his advantage. Zipped off to wherever here was to await his fate, Stephen wondered if he would ever get to talk to Michael again, to finish their conversation, to say he was sorry.

  Now on the third day, Stephen had fully cleared his mind, forgotten his preconceived notions, erased assumptions he had made. His lawyerly ways began to resurface. Stephen wondered if Michael would find what Julian wanted, whether there really was a chance that he would get out of this situation alive.

  He put on his old DA hat and looked only at the facts at hand. As he went about his daily routine inside this mansion, he remained acutely aware of his surroundings. Of the exits, of the house staff, of the guards at the door. He looked at the location of the phones, the windows, the cars in the driveway. The facts. He studied everything in the gym, his room, his bathroom. Things that could be used for improvisation. His conversations with the house staff were polite but nonspecific. They were well trained and would give nothing away to help Stephen with his predicament.

  The freedom he was provided here in this enormous home became claustrophobic. His every move was monitored by maids and butlers with plastic smiles, guards with dogs, with who knew what in their holsters. He was trapped and at the mercy of his host.