Finster had provided the exact location of the two keys, allowing Michael to concentrate on his method for procuring them. But Michael had been in this business long enough to know that you trust no one but yourself. While he had already committed to the job, it didn’t mean he trusted Finster for one moment.
Before agreeing to the heist, one of the first things Michael did was look into the German’s background. What he found would impress most. Finster was a billionaire who’d come out of East Germany a decade earlier, a Midas-touch industrialist who dabbled successfully in several fields. Michael used his sources to confirm Finster had no legal affiliations nor altercations in his past. Finster, it turned out, was your typical overly successful European who wanted what he couldn’t attain. The ultrarich always seemed to crave that which was just out of reach and would go to any length to get what they thought they deserved, believing they were above not only the common man but the law.
And while Finster checked out, that didn’t raise Michael’s level of trust. He would check and recheck all of Finster’s Vatican information, relying on none of it. Research was one of the keys to success, and he would be thorough in confirming every detail that his employer provided. But all the books and all the maps in the world wouldn’t tell him the routine of the museum, the ebb and flow of the tourists, of the priests, of the guards. If he was to prevail, he had not only to overcome the Vatican police and Swiss Guard security measures, he would have to become one with their routine.
Michael reached for a large accordion envelope. It had arrived that morning, hand-delivered from Finster’s hotel. From it, he pulled a small box and, opening it, found an iridium satellite phone inside. The phone was larger than a regular cell phone: eight inches by two and a half wide and an inch thick. Michael opened the back and pulled out the battery. It was heavier than he expected; its size was the obvious reason for the phone’s bulk. The phone may have been oversized but it had its unique advantages: it was capable of calling anywhere in the world from anywhere in the world. The attached note read: It is secure; you may contact me at your leisure in order to keep me apprised of your progress. But more importantly, you may use it to speak to your wife because, after all, that’s what this is all about.
In the envelope, Finster included ten thousand dollars in U.S. currency, twenty-five thousand euros, and three platinum credit cards, each matching a different alias. If something were to go wrong, Michael would have more than enough money and resources to purchase his way home.
There were three passports with the three different aliases. Michael’s real passport had been revoked in accordance with his probation. He had posed for the new passport pictures before leaving Finster’s hotel one week ago, allowing Finster to take care of the rest. Michael didn’t want to get picked up for the simple crime of passport falsification. That would end his journey before it began.
He spilled the remaining contents of the envelope into his hands: a plane ticket to Rome, another from Rome to Finster’s home in Germany, and a third for the return flight to New York. An itinerary was attached. He would be staying at the Hotel Bella Coccinni overlooking the Tiber in Rome.
He had seven days.
Mary, dressed in a pair of khakis and a floral blouse, lay in her hospital bed. The standard hospital wear had grown tired and embarrassing after a week, and it felt good to be back in something resembling healthy normality. Although still in considerable pain, she was relieved the surgery was behind her. She didn’t tell Michael but she was terrified of being put to sleep; she feared she would never wake up. Between the cancer and her nightmares, it had been weeks since she had felt well-rested.
Over a month ago, she’d awakened, her belly just a fraction distended from its usual taut appearance, her period six weeks late. She’d been filled with an almost overwhelming sense of joy as she drove to the pharmacy to get one of those early pregnancy tests. For years, she and Michael had wanted children. They had tried and tried. After Michael’s release from prison, they had both undergone multiple tests; they were both found to be fertile as rabbits. But nothing. The world told them to be patient, it would happen. Two months, then two years, had gone by. No specialist, herbalist, or prayer had cracked the problem.
But now, she was certain, things would be different. Everyone was right, it had happened. Mary felt life growing in her womb. All the way home from the pharmacy she planned how she would surprise Michael. Over a quiet dinner, maybe giving him a gift-wrapped baby rattle, or doing the traditional knitting-a-baby-sock routine while relaxing in a rocking chair. A special present was called for, one that was meaningful for both of them.
She finally settled on Dr. Seuss. She bought Green Eggs and Ham and had it wrapped in bright paper decorated with baby elephants. She would give the book to him that night in bed. She was bursting to tell him, to surprise him at work, but she wanted this to be memorable. Michael loved children. Together, they were going to raise a healthy brood. It had been a long road, but now they were on their way. This child would be the first of many.
Mary got home, opened the pregnancy test, and headed to the bathroom. It was a messy process, one she had done countless times before, but this time it would be different.
She waited the requisite five minutes. Nothing. She thought she had made a mistake, and reread the directions. There was a second test included in the box; she would wait an hour and take it, making sure she followed the directions to a tee.
It was negative. She felt like sobbing. Why had she allowed herself to be so hopeful? Michael would understand, but deep down, she knew, he would be disappointed. She threw the Dr. Seuss book in the garbage. She decided not to tell him. Why burden him? One broken heart per day was enough.
Now she sat in her hospital bed staring at the things Michael had brought her on his visits before the surgery. There among the cookies and flowers was a gift Michael had bought for her, thinking it would cheer her up. The tears welled in her eyes; it was Green Eggs and Ham.
The television was on mute; Jerry Springer’s flailing arms didn’t have their usual impact without his raging voice to back them up. Michael bent down, kissing Mary’s lips. “I’ve got to go away for a few days.”
“Where?” she asked, with a smile. She masked her disappointment well.
“Down South. I’ve got to sign some papers and do some work for Rosenfield, the guy who helped me cover these expenses.”
The lies were coming too easy and that worried Michael. Rosenfield may have liked Michael, but people didn’t invest in personalities. While the old guy had sympathy for Michael and Mary, he didn’t have enough. Rosenfield had said he was sorry, he couldn’t lend Michael so much money, he couldn’t take the risk.
“Did he just give you the money?”
“I told you before. It’s a loan, against the business and future work.”
“I still can’t get over that. I didn’t think there was anyone left with charity in their heart.” Mary scratched absently at the bandage that covered the shunt in her arm. “I don’t know how I could ever thank him.”
“I thanked him.” Michael took her hand in his. She had no idea that the security shop was just getting by. All she knew was that Michael was bringing home a paycheck every week and for that she was proud of him. For her, he had built something from nothing. “I’ve got to leave tonight.”
“Do you have to?” Her chemo was scheduled to start this afternoon and from what she had learned, severe side effects were ahead: she dreaded facing them alone.
“There is no place I would rather be than here with you.”
“Can I go, too?” It was more of a joke than a plea.
“I wish,” Michael said.
“I wish, too.”
“You have to start treatment.”
“I know.” She nodded, a shadow of disappointment in her eyes. “Just looking for an out, I guess. How long will you be gone?”
“About a week.”
“Hurry back,” Mary whispered as he held her in
his arms. They were each facing the challenge of their lives, yet neither showed fear. Each concerned more about the other than themself.
Dennis Thal entered the locker room. The young cop had soaked through his sweats as if he had jumped into a pool and was looking forward to the ice-cold shower. His one-on-one game of basketball with John Ferguson, a rookie detective, had ended in victory for Thal despite a crippled pinky and ring finger on his left hand; he never lost. Thal hated losing.
Busch stood at Thal’s locker, waiting impatiently.
Thal was in good shape, his body lean and cut. Busch was envious but knew it was the blessing of youth. In time, the younger man would succumb to the effects of french fries and gravity like everyone else. Thal seemed like a clean, straight-as-an-arrow kid raised with a silver spoon in his mouth. The word around the station was that he was wealthy, had a substantial trust fund, and was doing the law-enforcement thing for kicks. Busch was doing some checking of his own, and if this was true he’d request that the kid be transferred. Law was something that wasn’t enforced for fun or an adrenaline high. If Thal wanted to get his blood flowing, he could do it on someone else’s dime. Extreme law enforcement wasn’t a sport, it was Busch’s job. He wasn’t about to end up dead because some dude was looking to get his rocks off.
“What’s up?” Thal asked as he opened his locker.
“You were supposed to meet me upstairs fifteen minutes ago.”
“Oh, hey, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to screw you up.” Thal swiped his sweaty brown hair out of his eyes. “Let me take a thirty-second shower and I’ll be right up.”
Busch walked out of the locker room, calling back to Thal, “You’ve got three minutes.”
Thal looked around; no one else was in the area. He pulled off his dirty sweats and tossed them on the floor, throwing his towel over his right shoulder. He hopped in the shower, soaped up and, true to his word, was out of the icy water in thirty seconds. Efficiency was his motto. No need to waste time when there were more important things to attend to.
He combed his hair and threw on his pleated pants. Buffed up his shoes with his wet towel and grabbed his freshly pressed white shirt out of his locker, hastily putting it on. Thal wasn’t a modest man, he just didn’t want Busch (or anyone, for that matter) to see his right shoulder. Dennis Thal knew that, despite the Ralph Lauren shirt and Cole Haan loafers, he wasn’t what he seemed.
Thal knew the “tattoo” would set Busch off. The black skull with roses growing out of fractured bone would just confirm the big cop’s beliefs. It had been the foolish move of a sixteen-year-old, a way to be cool and fit in. In Thal’s case, it didn’t work. Costing three hundred and fifty dollars, the tattoo was a thing of hip beauty on the day it was done, but it no longer had the luster and the fine artistic lines he’d paid for. The scar tissue from a burn had distorted it to a grotesque horror that he couldn’t erase.
If Busch saw his tattoo, it would raise too many questions, questions that Thal could never answer. He had worked hard at polishing his lily-white image and something so incongruous would surely raise more than curiosity in a veteran cop like Busch. And Det. Dennis Thal hadn’t gone through all this trouble being assigned to Busch to be found out—he had a job to do and he wasn’t about to let his employer down.
The files on the left side of the desk stood eleven inches deep, a good three inches shorter than the stack on the right. For the last five minutes the piles alternated in height as Busch aimlessly pulled a case folder, pretended to review it, then shifted it to the other side of his desk. His parolee was fifteen minutes late; it wasn’t like the man, and Busch was growing concerned.
“Isn’t it a violation of parole to miss a required meeting?” Thal asked as he sat ramrod straight in Busch’s side chair.
Busch didn’t bother answering: he called the shots, not Thal. He was about to put him in his place when from somewhere under the papers came a muffled ring.
Busch pushed files aside and answered his phone. “Busch.”
“Hey, it’s me.” Michael sounded out of breath.
“You OK?”
Thal looked at Busch, his brow furrowed in question.
Busch quickly changed his tone. “You’re fifteen minutes late.” He wasn’t about to let Thal know of his friendship with Michael St. Pierre. He sensed that Thal would somehow turn it around and use this knowledge against him.
“Sorry, I had to take care of some things for Mary.”
“How is she?” Busch asked, a little curtly.
“She’s hanging tough, she starts chemo this afternoon.” It finally occurred to Michael: “Someone’s with you.”
“Yeah.” They were now on the same page. “Listen, you’ve got to get in here, we had a formal meeting scheduled to review your rehabilitation; skipping it is not an option.”
“I didn’t mean to put you in a tight position.” Michael paused, then said, “I’ve got to go away for a few days.”
Busch’s blood ran cold. “How many days?”
“A week.”
Busch was afraid to ask the question but he had a job to do. “Why?”
Michael was in his apartment, cradling the phone to his ear, staring at the Vatican plans spread out on his dining room table. “It has to do with the financing of Mary’s treatment. I’ve got some security work to do.”
Busch wasn’t buying it. Friend or no friend, he knew he was being misled. He’d get his answers but that would have to wait until he shook Thal.
“When?”
“I have to leave tonight.”
“Not until we meet.” They both knew Michael couldn’t leave the state without Busch’s permission.
“I don’t know if I’ll have the time.”
“Make the time.” Busch was real clear on this. He had never spoken to Michael in this tone before. Busch wanted answers, Michael could tell, and he owed him an explanation. He’d meet him, but the truth would have to wait. Michael was sure the last thing the truth would do in this case was set him free.
Busch and Michael stood behind the fence of a Little League baseball game, the bats bigger than the kids. Busch was the coach; he loved any and all sports, and he would pass what he knew on to his son. Robbie Busch played second base; down and ready, the boy was determined not to let a ball get by his pint-sized body. Neither man looked at each other. Instead, they kept their gaze on the kids on the field.
“So, where are you heading?”
“Virginia. Fredericksburg.”
“Seven days?”
“Yeah.”
The batter stood in the box, his three-and-a-half-foot body crouched and ready for the pitch. And though the pitcher didn’t have a prayer of throwing within the child’s diminutive strike zone, it didn’t matter, these kids swung at everything. Three pitches, three strikes, and the first batter was out.
“Let me go with you, I’ve got some time coming. Four hands do twice the work in half the time.”
“No, that’s all right, it’s mostly tech stuff, installation work.”
“Hell of a time to be going.”
“It’s the deal I made.”
“And what kind of deal is that?”
Michael looked at Paul; the subterfuge was killing both of them. “Standard contract.”
A squirt of a kid smacked the ball to third. The third baseman tried to make the throw but it fell short. The runner rounded first heading to second. The skinny pitcher picked up the ball and tossed it to Robbie who made the catch and raced for the bag, neck and neck with the runner; he reached out with all of his eighteen-inch arm and made the tag.
“Great job, Robbie!”
Robbie grinned wide at his father.
As the next batter came to the plate, Busch turned to Michael, getting serious. “Where did you get the money for Mary’s treatment?”
Michael kept his eyes on the game. “One of my clients.” He paused; he didn’t like being backed into a corner. “The one in Virginia.”
“Who?”
>
Michael ignored the question. “He gave me some work and helped me get a loan.”
“Thought you said you had no credit.” It was turning into an interrogation.
“I don’t.”
“Then how does someone without credit get a loan?”
“They get a benefactor.” Now, Michael looked directly at Busch. “Someone who has faith in them. Where are we going with this?”
“You tell me, Michael. Where are we going with this?”
Michael just stared; it was all he could do. He knew if this went on any longer he’d slip up, if he hadn’t already. He had to stay focused. Ninety-nine percent of the job was not getting caught and Michael was afraid that was about to happen.
“Will you look in on Mary while I’m gone?”
“You know I will,” Busch snapped. He was beginning to seethe. Michael was hiding behind his wife.
Michael turned to leave.
“Michael—don’t make me do my job.”
Michael said nothing as he got in his car, started it up, and pulled from the curb.
Michael drove down Maple Avenue. He had packed light, a carry-on with summer-weight clothes and the overstuffed black briefcase. He would pick up his tools and supplies once he landed in Italy. There was no sense being subjected to unnecessary questions at Customs.
Michael had tried to reach Mary before leaving but she’d been asleep. The medication they gave her helped the pain not only by numbing it but by helping her sleep through it. Although he had said his good-byes earlier, he longed to hear her voice before he was airborne. It would be the first full night they’d spent apart since he’d been released. Michael’s heart was breaking. He had left Mary alone for three and a half years while he was in prison. He’d sworn he would never do it again. And yet here he was, abandoning her in her most desperate hour. But, this job is different, he reminded himself. This job isn’t for personal gain or ego challenge.
The Thieves of Heaven Page 9