The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  She sat on the bed and held the box in her hand.

  Michael’s warning was clear; it still rang in her ears: “Do not open the box.” She looked at it and pondered its contents. She knew that though the golden treasure was worth a fortune—if not priceless—its contents must really be the object of Julian Zivera’s desire. A desire worth a man’s life. And the more she thought on it, she imagined Zivera would kill however many were needed to fulfill his desires.

  And all the while the temptation hung in the air. It was like Michael had baited her with his simple demand. What of such value could be contained in a cigar-box-sized container? What secrets did it hold that Michael didn’t want her to see? What didn’t he want her to know but was willing to consider giving to someone as dangerous as Zivera? What secret was worth a man’s life?

  She looked at the lock. It was simply a slotted hole. She reached into her travel bag and withdrew a nail file. She inserted it in the keyhole. It fit perfectly. She could feel it pressing against the simple cylinder. And she thought better of it.

  She laid the file on the bed.

  Michael had asked her—no—he told her not to open the box.

  But the why and the what gnawed at her brain. Like an incessant ring, it called to her. What secret had set everything in motion, had set her and Michael on this quest? What secret had been hidden away for five hundred years? A secret that Ivan the Terrible, one of history’s most evil men, thought too dangerous for the world.

  She looked at the lock and wondered if the excitement she was feeling was why Michael did what he did. Venturing where you shouldn’t, opening locks to hidden riches.

  All logic seemed to slip from her mind. All of her education ignored. Warnings to be heeded were disregarded. It was the temptation, the allure of the unknown, it was the forbidden knowledge we are exempt from as children.

  And then logic took over. She had the power to resist; she was a grown adult with the ability to tame her curiosity.

  She continued to look at the box, crafted thousands of years ago. It had been held by kings and queens and tsars before it was lost to history for five hundred years. She picked it up, holding it, turning it about in her hands, admiring its perfection, its beauty. Amazed at the craftsmanship from an era before modern tools, before machinery.

  And in that same way that we convince ourselves that it’s all right to drive above the speed limit when we are late, that it’s OK to eat that one piece of cheesecake, to call in sick on a perfect beach day, Susan made a decision. The consequences are always minimized until they are realized, but it is a lesson that is seldom learned. It is why people continue to get speeding tickets, gain weight while on a diet, or get caught with a tan after being out with the flu.

  She inserted the file in the keyhole and turned. There was a subtle resistance but after an instant the simple lock gave way with a small click. She looked at the box. No one would ever know. Against all logic, in a momentary lapse of reason, she slowly opened the top. The reflected light on the lid slid down the wall as the cover lifted up.

  Susan looked into the darkness of the box. It was a moment before the realization hit her.

  And she screamed.

  The door exploded open. The room dissolved to chaos. Suddenly the hotel suite was filled with six men, dressed in black, their Kalashnikov rifles all trained on her. Her mind was flooded with a mixture of fear, confusion, and rage.

  Before she could say a word, she slammed the box closed.

  The lead man grabbed her by the arm and violently ripped her off the bed. He tore the box from her grip. They never allowed her to gain her footing as she was dragged by the swarm of troops from the room.

  Busch circled the Royal Meridien twice, making sure there were no police, military, or death squads surrounding the place, lying in wait for him. He was about to enter to find Susan but stopped short as three black Range Rovers pulled up, disgorging a team of soldiers dressed in black. Busch’s heart sank to a new low as he held his breath waiting for the inevitable. And after less than a minute, it happened. Susan was dragged from the building kicking and screaming with every bit of energy in her petite frame.

  She was tossed in the center Range Rover; a soldier with his pistol drawn slid in next to her and pulled the door closed. The lead soldier walked to the rear SUV and stood at attention as Fetisov stepped from the rear of the vehicle. He listened, nodding his head as the soldier spoke rapidly. Finally, Fetisov held out his left hand palm up. The soldier reached into his side bag and withdrew a small gold box. The morning sun’s reflection exploded off the casing, visibly dazzling Fetisov, who broke out in a fierce smile. He took the soldier’s side bag and placed the box inside.

  Busch watched from his vantage point across the street as Fetisov got back in his vehicle and the three Range Rovers drove off in tight formation. He stood there, his head spinning, his heart pounding as he watched both Susan and the box disappear in the Moscow morning.

  The anxiety, the pressure Busch was feeling was overwhelming his senses. He could hardly get a clear thought through his head. Everything had gone wrong, everything had turned to chaos. Everything was gone: Michael, Genevieve, and now Susan and the box.

  He explained it all to Martin as they drove through the streets of Moscow in a black Jaguar. Martin sat there without saying a word, without a single emotion on his face, as Busch detailed everything that had occurred in the last three hours.

  They drove back to the private air terminal on the outskirts of Moscow and into a private hangar. There were four men dressed in suits milling about, who all came quickly to attention as Martin exited the car. Busch hadn’t realized the presence Martin actually possessed; he was in command without needing to say it, without needing to show it. There was an economy to his every move. He only spoke in brief sentences and bore no sign of emotion. His tie was perfect, his suit as if it just came off the rack. Busch knew this man missed his calling in life: he may have run the day-to-day operations in a law firm, but he was truly a field man, a crisis-management expert.

  Though Martin worked for Stephen Kelley and was at Susan’s beck and call, to these men, he was God. They quickly surrounded him as he spoke in hushed tones, giving them orders. He called over two men who were guarding the company jet. They were not polished like the others, they were large and thick with hard Slovak faces. Martin reached in his pocket, withdrew a wad of cash, and thumbed out twenty bills to each of them. The men quickly left the hangar as Martin turned his attention back to Busch.

  “I literally just bought us some time.”

  Busch looked at him quizzically.

  “From what you have said, people are going to be looking for you and will be looking for the plane we all arrived in. As far as everyone is concerned, our plane just left the country. At least that is what all the flight records will show.”

  “How?”

  “Everything in this world has a price, especially in Russia.”

  “I need to find out where they are holding Michael,” Busch said.

  “Please understand, I do not wish to offend you, but my concern is first and foremost Susan and Stephen.” Martin turned and walked to a table in the center of the hangar. It was strewn with papers and maps. “In what direction did they travel with Susan?”

  As angry as it made Busch, he understood. They each had a missing friend. Martin’s priority was Susan. “I suspect she’s left the country,” Busch said as he walked over to the table. “Fetisov will be delivering everything to Zivera: the box, Genevieve, and Susan.”

  Martin looked up from the map. “How do you know? They have no use for Susan, she may already be dead,” he said without any sense of emotion.

  “I doubt it. If they were going to kill her, they would have done so at the hotel. Why bother dragging her around unless she had value?”

  “And what value does she have to them?” Martin asked.

  “I don’t know. Insurance, would be my guess.” Busch turned and looked at the jet; it w
as fueled and ready, yet it had nothing to carry. “They would have wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. Is there a way to see what planes left the country?”

  “Not as easy. If they left Russia with Fetisov, they may have flown out of a military base.”

  “I don’t think so; Susan wasn’t picked up in a military vehicle, unless Russia is supplying everyone with ninety-thousand-dollar Range Rovers.”

  Martin stared at Busch a moment. Finally he turned back to his men. “Jason.” The tallest of the four quickly ran over and stood awaiting direction. Martin pulled out his cell phone and turned back to Busch. “I’ll see what I can find. Why don’t you get something to eat.”

  Busch walked up the stairs and into the jet. He collapsed in one of the large leather chairs and turned his thoughts back to Michael. There were so many problems before him it was overwhelming. He knew that they couldn’t all be solved at once and would have to be tackled individually. Busch really had two concerns: Michael and the box. Susan had no idea what she was carrying. Nor did Busch for that matter. Genevieve’s dark warning terrified him, it was so heartfelt, so ominous, yet its meaning was also elusive. There was no time for details as she was stolen away from him.

  Fetisov had taken Busch by surprise. Busch was angry at himself for being so trusting, and watching the general destroy that trust so harshly. He completely misjudged the Russian but there was one thing Busch was sure of: Fetisov wasn’t staying in Russia any longer than he had to. He was off to deliver it all to Zivera. And it was only a matter of time before Zivera opened the box, unleashing who knew what on the unsuspecting world.

  While Busch was formerly a cop, good with a gun and putting pieces together, his skills weren’t going to help rescue Michael. He needed an ally, someone who was skilled in all of the areas he was not.

  Only one person came to mind.

  The man was a manifestation of contradiction: pious, yet deadly; he could give absolution for Commandments he wouldn’t hesitate to break. No one was more efficient or lethal than the man he knew only as Simon. His combat skills with his bare hands were second only to his near-perfect skill with weapons. He was trained by the Italian army and had performed tasks Busch could not even imagine.

  As deadly and impersonal as Simon was, he had become a friend not only to Michael but to Busch. Busch felt a great deal of sympathy for the man, for someone who spent his life alone. Though Simon had devoted his life to God, Busch knew his devotion differed from other priests. There were no Wednesday golf games, no gathering with family, no saying Mass on Sunday. Simon’s calling was far different; his calling was to where his talents would best fit. And as a result, Simon was truly alone.

  Both Michael and Busch had tried desperately to remain in contact, but they were only mildly successful. Simon was lost in some other project and had reverted to his secretive demeanor since they had parted ways a year earlier. Simon had helped him and Michael recover two keys from a German industrialist in Berlin, the three of them nearly losing their lives. Of all the people in the world, Simon was the only person Busch knew could figure out a way to save Michael.

  Busch lifted up the armrest, reached in, picked up, and dialed the phone. It rang three times before the man answered in a subtle Italian accent, “Archives.”

  “Father Simon, please,” Busch asked.

  “I’m sorry,” the man responded. “He is traveling.”

  “Can he be reached?” Busch said.

  “I’m sorry, he is on holiday.”

  “This is his friend Paul Busch,” he said, hoping the word “friend” would loosen some lips. “Do you know where?”

  Something seemed to register in the voice in Italy. “I believe…” The man paused. “I believe he said Moscow.”

  Chapter 48

  It had been three agonizing hours. Michael sat in wait, watching the video screen, his hope all but lost. Raechen may have already gone to work on Susan, uselessly breaking her soul to find out that which she didn’t even know.

  But then, on the monitor, he saw the Suburbans pull up. Raechen got out of the first vehicle. Michael watched, his breath caught in his throat in anticipation of seeing Susan. But the SUVs only discharged a team of men before driving off. Michael didn’t know whether to be relieved or hopeless. Where was she? Did Raechen find her, had he already broken her spirit? Michael thought of getting out of there, but what if Susan was being held in another area of the Kremlin? He would have no chance of finding her. He tried to force the images that arose in his imagination from his mind; he refused to think of her as dead.

  He flipped the monitor feed switch back and every monitor filled with the image of himself and Susan. He sat in the chair and affixed the rigged handcuffs around his wrists. He allowed himself to stare at the multitude of images of Susan. The more he looked at her, the more he felt for her. If he was able to get her out of here, maybe he would be ready to move on with his life.

  And he waited, seconds seeming like hours. The whine of the elevator filled the vacant hallway. He hoped against hope that Raechen wouldn’t go down to the cells first and find the dead guards. He heard the elevator door part, followed by a single set of footsteps.

  The door opened, Raechen stood there alone. Michael could almost taste the anger on the man’s face, and he readied for the fight. Raechen marched in and threw his jacket, his twin pistols, and their holsters on the counter. He turned, stalked right up to Michael, and stared down at him.

  It was a moment before Michael understood and he smiled. “You didn’t find her, did you?”

  Raechen glared at Michael. “You may want to wipe that smile off your face.” Raechen’s subtle Russian accent was filtered by a clinched jaw. “You think she is safe? Someone got to the Royal Meridien before me. Which is too bad. I may have let her live but the man who has her, he won’t allow that to happen.”

  The relief Michael felt, the glee in his eyes, vanished.

  “Nikolai Fetisov doesn’t like to leave people alive.”

  Michael’s heart nearly stopped. He, Susan, his father were surrounded on all sides by enemies: Zivera, Raechen, Fetisov. All with goals that would be paved with their deaths.

  Michael had imagined himself so smart, naïvely thinking he could save Susan. But now, she could be anywhere.

  Raechen took a long breath and leaned back against the counter. “If Fetisov already has Genevieve, why would he kidnap your friend? What does she have?”

  Michael knew there was only one reason: a reason hidden within the satchel he gave her.

  “You weren’t just rescuing Zivera’s mother, what else were you doing? What were you stealing, Mr. St. Pierre?”

  Michael couldn’t hide the shock on his face, the surprise that Raechen knew who he was but even worse, what he was.

  “Come now, you think Russia doesn’t possess resources? You followed me here from your hometown, the same town where I kidnapped Zivera’s mother.”

  Michael could not hide his rising anger.

  “She’s…your friend, isn’t she? But I don’t think you came to Russia just for her, did you?”

  Michael said nothing, fighting to suppress his anger, his mind waiting for the right moment to act.

  Raechen turned his back on Michael, walking toward the other side of the room. Michael quickly slipped out of the rigged handcuffs, grabbed the pistol from under his shirt, and pointed it at Raechen.

  “Turn around,” Michael said.

  Raechen stopped in his tracks and slowly turned. He looked at the gun and then at Michael as if he were looking at a child, unafraid. “What are you going to do with that?” Raechen looked over at the counter on the far side of the room; his pistols were twenty-five feet away. He began walking toward Michael. “If you are going to shoot me, I suggest you do it before I rip that gun from your hands.” Raechen continued toward Michael.

  Michael watched him approach, twenty feet away, fifteen…Michael needed to get out of here and fast if he was to have any chance of saving S
usan and Genevieve. And he decided, no more wasting time.

  Raechen was ten feet from Michael, walking quicker now.

  And Michael shot him. The bullet tore into Raechen’s right thigh, going clear through and embedding in the wall. A small bull’s-eye of blood and flesh encircled the bullet hole.

  Raechen hit the floor with a thud. Michael leapt from his chair, his gun held at the ready as he pulled out a set of handcuffs and secured Raechen’s arms behind his back. He crouched down and cleared the Russian’s pockets of his cell phone, keys, and money. He tore the man’s pant leg around the exit wound. The bullet had gone wide, missing the artery, passing through the meaty outer portion of the Russian’s thigh. Michael stood up, grabbed Raechen’s jacket off the counter, and wrapped it about his leg. Michael stood and kept the gun trained on the man’s head.

  “Go ahead, shoot,” Raechen said.

  “No, thanks. I’m not going to have your death on my conscience.”

  “Don’t speak to me about your conscience, thieves don’t have consciences.”

  “And you do? Don’t go there, don’t try to justify your actions for the betterment of your country.”

  Raechen laughed. “My country? I retired to the state of Virginia five years ago.” Raechen paused, his eyes drifting with his thoughts. “My son is six years old. He has experienced more pain in his short life than a normal person would in a lifetime. I spent every waking moment searching the world for a cure for him. You have no idea what it is like to have a loved one dying, to be overcome by the feeling of helplessness.”

  Though Michael knew that pain and understood it all too well, he said nothing.

  “The mighty government, their brilliant doctors, offered me hope for my son. They said to kidnap Julian Zivera’s mother, bring her to us, and we will save your son.” He paused. “They dangled my son’s life before my eyes. I could care less about Russia, I could care less about America or anywhere. All I cared about was my boy and making him better. Now, I have failed him.”