The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  After Simon had killed the two assassins, they had sped off from the police station in Simon’s rental car without further incident. The silence was unbroken during the drive, each man stewing, biting his respective tongue from lashing out in anger at the others. It finally all spilled out when Michael and Busch stepped from the car and right into a puddle.

  “What are you going to do?” Michael asked Busch.

  “What should I do?”

  Simon, his arms draped over the steering wheel, said quietly, “You should leave.”

  Busch whirled around. “I didn’t ask you,” he snarled, then looked back to Michael. He was waiting for an answer to his question.

  “I put you through enough already,” Michael said.

  “I didn’t come all the way over here for my amusement.”

  “What I told you before, about this man Finster—”

  “—is true,” Simon finished, drumming his fingers impatiently on the wheel.

  “Did you fill his head with this frigging nonsense?” Busch’s anger made his voice tremble.

  “It isn’t nonsense.” Simon slid out of the car.

  “What are you, some kind of Bible-banging fanatic or something?”

  “In so many words—”

  Busch never let him finish. “Well, in so many words—no, in four words: Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

  “I’m a priest.”

  Busch was silenced. He was a devout man, so strong in his beliefs that another man’s commitment to faith shouldn’t be a surprise, but Simon’s words stunned him nonetheless. Not only had he spoken viciously to him, but Busch had just witnessed this priest shoot a man dead, a bullet through the side of the head, with an efficiency befitting a machine. The sweat-suited assassin had no chance, not that he would have given them one. This priest didn’t kid around.

  Busch turned to Michael. “I didn’t come here to drag you back against your will.”

  “No? You’re the one who had me arrested.”

  “No way. I never told anybody you left the country—either time. You left me slack-jawed at the airline security gate, by the way. What the fuck was up with that? You lied right to my face.” The big man’s eyes were on fire again. He took a deep breath, trying to regain composure. “I didn’t have you arrested; my new ex-partner fucked me over. You remember the preppy prick who clubbed you back at your apartment?”

  Michael nodded.

  “His name’s Thal and he was running his Internal Affairs cattle prod up my ass for God knows what reason, and now he thinks I let you go. He wants to bring you in so they can hang me high. That boy’s in the know, I’ll give him that. He knew where you were going even before you left. He contacted Interpol with your exact location an hour before you were picked up.”

  “Then why the cuffs, buddy?” Michael sneered, still angry.

  “Well—buddy—if you’re picking someone up on an international warrant, handcuffs are the rule. You were to be picked up by Thal and flown back to the U.S. sometime later tonight. If you’d like I can take you back. And listen”—Busch leaned in—“the cuffs were for your benefit. I needed you to listen, needed you to hear me out.”

  “There is nothing you can do to help us,” Simon impatiently interjected. “Michael, we are out of time here.”

  Busch shifted his gaze to the priest. “I see you and I are going to get along just great, Father.” Simon glared at Busch, but Busch was unfazed; he ignored him and turned back to Michael. “I don’t believe this bullshit, Michael, but…” He pulled out a file and threw it on the hood of the car. “That’s everything about this man Finster.” He turned to Simon. “And he’s just a man.” He turned back to Michael. “His businesses, habits, pleasures, his taste in women. His profile comes up a bit short, but I’d be willing to bet it’s far more than you have already.”

  As if his anger was suddenly washed away, the cop broke out into a huge smile. He was here, so he might as well make the best of it. He slapped his hands together, rubbing them vigorously. “You guys got a plan?”

  “Working on it,” Michael said.

  “Working on it?” Busch’s grin vanished. “Some team. What were you going to do, go in, flash a cross and say, ‘Hand over those keys’?”

  The storm returned, the hard rain washing away the last remnants of fog. Simon was placing multiple crosses around the hotel room, praying as he went. Candles with a Latin inscription carved into them were burning in one corner, casting a luminous glow that gave the impression of some holy force field encircling them. The hotel room’s spartan decor had been vanquished by an extreme Gothic feel, one that Busch would have found laughable if the other two men weren’t so damn serious.

  “May I ask what you’re doing?” Busch said, stretching out on one of the beds, beer in hand. He’d decided his drinking moratorium was over for the time being, in light of the insanity going on around him.

  “Protecting us,” Simon responded, in a hushed tone.

  “From?”

  “You never see darkness where there is light. Evil avoids that which is holy.”

  “Not where I come from. Who you trying to keep out—Dracula?” Busch rolled his eyes.

  Simon didn’t bother looking up from his work. “Let’s just say it’s much worse than that.”

  “You really believe those candles will keep ’em out? Protect us from the boogeyman?”

  Simon nodded.

  Busch sighed. “Yeah, and it keeps us in. Trapped.” He rose from the bed, stalking around the room, examining the crosses; he had never seen such a wide variety. “And what if you’re wrong? What if this rich Finster guy isn’t who you say he is? What if he is really just a tough billionaire industrialist with some warped obsession for keys and some big-ass bodyguards?”

  “Then it won’t be so difficult,” Simon replied. “But, just in case…” He walked over to his bag, pulled out a Heckler & Koch submachine gun.

  “OK.” Busch looked over at Michael for some help, but he just sat there in his chair, silent and still. “What kind of priest are you?” he asked Simon.

  Simon returned to placing crosses. “Some priests care for the sick, others hear confessions, celebrate Mass, spread the Word. They perform duties where their strengths are best utilized, where the Church requests their services. Me? My talents lay on a different path. I protect God. If I had killed him”—Simon gestured toward Michael—“back in Israel when I had the chance—”

  “Killed him?” Busch was outraged. “You tried to kill Michael?”

  “You’re a lawman. You uphold the law of your town, your society. Well, I’m a lawman, too; the law I live by is the law of God. I’ll uphold His law and if an execution is necessary, then…” He shrugged. “Am I so different from you?”

  “Don’t compare us,” Busch spat through gritted teeth.

  “You were going to arrest Michael just for leaving the country, send him to prison for trying to save his wife. He is your friend and yet you would do that to him?” Simon turned his back on Busch and continued placing crosses. “You obviously value your law more than your friendship.” Setting the last cross down, he picked up his bourbon. “I value my law more than life. If I took his earthly life, he still had eternal life, we all had eternal life. But now…Well, I didn’t take that from him. Finster did.”

  In a strange way Busch understood Simon, he knew exactly what the lunatic was saying. Busch didn’t agree with the priest’s methodology yet somehow he understood it. But that didn’t change things. “Don’t you mean Satan did?” Busch asked with half a laugh, shrugging off Simon.

  Simon hated to be mocked. “You’re here to help? Then you better believe what I am telling you. August Finster is darkness.”

  “Really?” The condescension in Busch’s voice couldn’t have been thicker. “You run around preaching your bullshit story, treating my friend like some kind of pawn. Whose bidding is Michael doing now, Padre? Huh? You’re playing his emotions, taking advantage of his situation with his wife. Exactly li
ke Finster did.” Busch’s accusing finger came dangerously close to Simon’s nose. “At least Finster paid him.”

  “Paul?” Michael sat up in his chair. He had seen Busch explode too many times and while he appreciated his defense, he couldn’t afford things getting ugly again. They needed to work together, to remain focused on the task at hand.

  “He’s playing you for a fool, can’t you see it?” Busch demanded.

  “I know what I’m doing,” Michael answered.

  “Do you? Mary needs you, she needs you bad. I know you’re not thinking straight right now but I am. I got to get you home before you get killed.”

  “Paul, I believe what I’m doing is right. I’m asking you as my friend: Trust me.”

  It was killing Busch; he knew that he was here for all the wrong reasons. He and Michael had almost been killed, they were holed up in this room with no plan, and somewhere out there was someone or something who wanted them dead. But he saw the overwhelming conviction in Michael’s eye. “All right…But I still don’t believe all this Devil, Hell, eternal damnation crap—”

  “Do you believe in Heaven?” Simon interrupted softly.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Do you believe in Heaven?” Simon roared.

  “Yes!” Busch shot back, furious.

  “Then why is it so hard to believe in Hell? They are just opposite sides of the same coin.” Simon paused, calming himself. “You joke about that which you don’t comprehend. Hell is real and it is eternal.” Simon had his finger in Busch’s face now. “Hell is not some picture on a wall, some actor in a movie. I wish he was just a cloven-footed beast with horns.” The priest’s intensity grew, his conviction growing with every word. “Man has envisioned Satan and created Hell with his own thoughts: Dante’s Inferno, the nine circles of Hell, fire and brimstone—they’re all just bullshit. That is all man’s imagination. As we can not comprehend the beauty and salvation of Heaven, we cannot hope to comprehend the torment and agony of Hell. It is dark, unrelenting, and viciously evil. Hell,” Simon laughed, “it’s undeserving of any name. You have no concept of pure evil but you will….Before we are through, you will know better than any man who walks this earth what true evil is.”

  Chapter 24

  At about the same time Busch and Simon were arguing, Dennis Thal was showing up at the Berlin United Police Headquarters. When he presented the papers for the release of Michael, confusion seemed to run through each successive officer he spoke with. The fact that each pretended to need a translator annoyed the shit out of him, particularly since the answer was always the same. St. Pierre was gone, picked up, signed for, no longer their problem. Each time, Thal politely nodded his head, then asked to speak to the next in the chain of command. When the chief gave the final word, Thal concealed his rage and left. The description of the man who’d picked up Michael was vague, but one detail made the man’s identity obvious: Michael’s escort was ein riesig grosse bär: an enormous big bear.

  The rain stopped as he walked across the parking lot. The stakes had just been raised. Paul Busch was clearly one step ahead. Thal’s quarry of one had doubled and the more he thought about it, the more excited he got. His job was Michael and his pleasure would be Busch. Individually, their downfalls would have been supreme. But to get them both together…that would be an indulgence of the senses.

  His thoughts were interrupted when he saw the two corpses; the white stripes on their jogging suits had turned red with blood. One still clutched a nine-millimeter automatic. Thal looked about; no one seemed to be around. He leaned down, checking the bodies. Rigor mortis had yet to set in. He cursed himself: Busch had gotten the jump on him. These two guys were obviously a European-side backup. The fact that it was presumed he, Thal, needed a backup, that the chance existed he could fail, pissed him off. He made a mental note to address the issue once he achieved success. He examined the bodies closer, checking the bullets’ entrance and exit points. The wounds were professional: each had been shot cleanly in the head. Someone was protecting Michael. Well, good, that just ratcheted things another notch.

  Thal’s initial assignment wasn’t to kill Michael St. Pierre. It was only to watch him, keep an eye on him, know his every move. Once it was learned that Michael was on parole, Thal simply started an internal investigation on the ex-con’s parole officer. It was absurdly easy to put himself next to the man who was closest to Michael.

  For five years, Thal had hidden behind the mask of Internal Affairs. The undercover division provided him mobility and the freedom to slip away on a moment’s notice under the pretense of a confidential investigation. He was fair to mediocre in his performance and that was just how he wanted it. Mediocrity was always ignored in this world. People found nothing of interest in the average. Only the outstanding, the successful, the popular, or the dismal failure drew attention. And so he lost himself deliberately in the middle. He couldn’t afford any attention or he would risk his passion:

  Killing.

  Dennis Thal was outstandingly good at it and was outstandingly paid for it. He didn’t find much humor in the world, but the fact that he was paid so generously for his one true love always struck him as funny. He was requested by his handler to find a suitable job that would make him inconspicuous. Internal Affairs was just that. An undercover cop among the undercover cops. It allowed him to monitor the progress on any investigation that might lead to him and provided him with the unique ability to manipulate the investigations when necessary. He actually liked Internal Affairs. Sniffing in others’ dirty laundry; he had the power to ruin lives. What could be better? But the job he relished most was moonlighting for the faceless individuals who employed him. The pay for that was outrageous, the pleasure was stunning. He had found his vocation in life and he excelled at it.

  He’d slipped into the Byram Hills Police force under the pretense of an Internal Affairs investigation of their parole system—namely, Paul Busch. Captain Delia was so flustered at the situation and scared for his own skin that he gave up everything on his number one cop in a heartbeat—Busch’s history, records, everything. And most importantly, one file in particular, a file on Thal’s actual mark: Michael St. Pierre.

  Thal was to keep an eye on Michael; the assignment didn’t involve killing, just watching, but Thal being Thal, his urges ran in other directions. He despised Busch, his cozy little life, his perfect morals and codes. From the moment Busch dissed him, not wanting to work together, Thal had looked for an opening, a way to tear Busch and his perfect life down. After all, Thal policed the police. He was absolutely empowered to remove any cop from the system who was deemed corrupt. How fitting that Busch’s downfall would come out of his foolish, honest gesture of helping his best friend break parole! And Thal would be right there to call him on it. First, he would destroy Busch’s career. Then he would destroy his life.

  Now, as Thal stood outside the Berlin police station, he knew he should have followed his instincts; he should have killed Busch when he had the chance. Now things were out of control. Busch had Michael and they had slipped away. Thal knew that he couldn’t fail. If he did, he would end up unemployed, replaced, and, most disagreeably, dead.

  Michael had slipped out of the U.S. before Thal could stop him. And so Thal had received a new directive. His heart nearly skipped a beat. He could throw restraint to the wind. He hated babysitting, watching, keeping an eye out. He was like a shark, in need of constant motion, always on the hunt, an unsatiated bloodlust; when restrained, motionless in his environment, he would smother and drown.

  Thal was no longer to watch Michael: he was to kill him. And not only Michael. Busch, he decided, would die also. And if either of them gave him a hard time, maybe he would go back afterward and pay a visit to their families. That sweet Mary wouldn’t have to worry about the cancer anymore….

  The footsteps echoed off the damp stone walls. The match flame cut through the blackness, the fat cigar glowing as its smoke billowed upward into the cavern where it d
anced around stalactites fifty feet overhead. The single flame grew into many as he lit the succession of candles, one hundred candles, lining the walls. Finster dipped his fresh Cuban in his brandy as he contemplated his bizarre collection of religious artwork. He walked slowly past each masterpiece with a reverence befitting a king. Each piece had been meticulously researched, located, acquired, catalogued, and restored. Pride was his favorite deadly sin. Pride was just self-esteem emboldened by one’s accomplishments, and he so liked his accomplishments.

  There were three thousand two hundred and eighty-one works of art stacked one against the other here, with his favorites out front. Many purchased outright from galleries and auction houses. For the occasional piece that he found in private hands, collections, or homes, a piece he found that he could not do without, Finster employed other means of procurement. There were thirteen of this type, and of this thirteen, nine had been secured from houses of worship.

  Finster found particular fascination with the lesser gods and demons of those early religions which have since become looked upon as mythology by today’s “modern” faiths. Hades and Persephone, the gods of the Greek netherworld; Anubis, the Egyptian god of the dead; Proserpine, Roman goddess of the underworld; and Loki and Sigyn, the trickster Norse gods. And what most intrigued him was the fact that these “dark gods” were believed to be part of a balancing force in their particular realms. They were not gods to be vanquished and cast away. While feared, they were also respected—and even admired—looked upon as necessary in daily life. The fact the “modern faiths” had done everything in their power to denigrate their sole lord of darkness baffled and infuriated him.

  Shrines and temples had been built to the Hindu god Shiva, one of the darkest of the feminine gods, and they were still worshipped at today. Appeasements made, offerings given. The goddess was spoken of with reverence and many sought help from her. Her followers were not looked down upon. When something tragic was performed by a man, it was not blamed on Shiva possessing his soul, it was ascribed to the individual who had performed the act of his own free will. Finster loved the masterpiece before him, removed under cover of darkness from a temple outside of Jaipur. Shiva’s six arms outstretched to her screaming minions, who were engulfed in flames below.