The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  Vlad the Impaler, a magnificent oil painting by Rukaj, stolen from Ceausescu. The Romanian prince of Wallachia struck a deep chord in Finster. Vlad Dracul was never a god. He was just a man in whom the coldest form of evil ran. A military genius who struck fear into not only the hearts of his enemies but those of his countrymen. A count, hailing from the northern mountain regions, Dracul had a hunger for power and an unquenchable thirst for blood. A victorious general who savored the ritual of impaling his victims by the thousands on pikes, their blood running in virtual rivers as a warning. And with men like him in the world—ordinary men with a propensity for violence and evil springing from their own self satisfaction—there was no need to introduce wickedness into the world. Man’s evil ways were man’s evil ways.

  Man had always found evil more fascinating than good. The young girl was always attracted to the rebel, the guy with the leather jacket and motorcycle who defied the law. What allure was there to the nerd, the computer geek goody-goody? And it followed throughout life: actors always wanted to portray the bad guy, the villain was always the more intriguing character in literature. Ask anyone to name ten interesting good guys and ten interesting bad guys. He’ll have those ten marauders in twenty seconds flat but after five heroes he’d be hard-pressed.

  And with all this confusion, Finster had grown tired. People had become so predictable. Wave a little money in front of their faces, flash a little sex before their eyes, and their will bent like a sapling in a breeze. Finster was merely the tempter, never the hand that wielded the gun.

  He continued his stroll down his off-color-Louvre, finally arriving at the door to the key chamber, with the painting of the Gates of Heaven propped beside it. Charles came down the stairs carrying a long black bag and a large knife.

  Finster’s eyes never left the painting as he spoke to the butler. “And he looked and he saw that it was good,” he murmured.

  Charles stood in the corner by the hanging body. He laid the black body bag on the floor, unzipping it to prepare it for its latest arrival. The odor of death flowed off the corpse: decay had already set in. With much effort, Charles lowered the body to the ground. He pushed Elle’s red hair away from her once beautiful face, and removed the noose from her swollen and bruised neck.

  Finster continued to stare at the painting of the Gates of Heaven, deep in thought. And a slight smile began to form on his lips.

  “I’m going home,” he said.

  Chapter 25

  Crosses covered the windows, the doors, the walls, thousands of crosses, everywhere. Barely an inch of space had escaped the priest’s handiwork. It reminded Busch of the serial rapist he had caught eight years back; pictures, culled from magazines, torn from newspapers, had covered every inch of the psychopath’s bedroom. All of prepubescent girls. And the sicko, scarcely nineteen years old, had just sat there as Busch arrested him, confused at what he had done wrong, protesting “but Zeus told me to do it.”

  Busch and Simon sat in the middle of the floor, a bottle of Cutty Sark on the carpet between them. There couldn’t have been more than an inch of whiskey left in the brand-new bottle. The two men had finally found something in common: both were within a shot of passing out.

  “So, Father, what do you do when you’re not out fighting the Devil, killing people, that holy thing you do?” Busch’s slurred question was barely understandable.

  “I…play chess.” Simon’s voice was clear but he was obviously in no better shape.

  “Chess is good. Little too cerebral for me.”

  After much thought and furrowing of the brow, Simon blurted out: “Football.”

  “Ah…Now we’re getting somewhere.” Busch perked up.

  “Not American football. Soccer.”

  The cop’s elation ebbed. “We”—he pointed to Michael, who seemed lost in a game of solitaire on the bed—“play football. Good old American football.”

  “You any good?”

  “Yeah, we’re any good,” Busch shot back.

  “Got to be strong for that.”

  “Yeah, strong.” Busch’s pride was swelling.

  “Quick?”

  “Quicker the better.”

  “Smart?”

  “Sharp as a tack.” He had second thoughts. “Well, the quarterback’s got to be smart.”

  “You the quarterback?”

  Busch laughed. “No. Just quick and strong.”

  Simon lay on his stomach, extended his arm, offering his hand in challenge. “How strong?” he demanded.

  Busch grinned, stretched his arms several times, loosening them up, then sprawled out on the floor in front of Simon. “All right, padre. You confident?”

  “Confident.” Simon flexed his hand for a good grip.

  “Then let’s make it interesting. Say one hundred U.S. dollars.”

  “One hundred bucks,” the priest drunkenly agreed.

  They pulled out their money, throwing it on the carpet.

  Michael kept glancing over at the two drunks, lost in their macho posturing. He got up from the bed and walked over to the food cart. There he picked up two long-stemmed wineglasses and, clearing his throat for effect, turned to the two rug rats. “Bullshit, guys. Want to see who’s stronger? Let’s make it really mean something.” And with that, he raised the glasses and brought them down on the edge of the metal food cart, shattering the goblets so only the stems remained. The very jagged, knifelike glass stems.

  Michael walked over and placed the broken glasses in the fall line of each of their arms. The loser would be impaled on the dagger-like crystal, the glass piercing the back of his hand, running it through. He smiled. “That’s a little more motivation than one hundred bucks.”

  Simon and Busch exchanged glances.

  “Go on,” Michael taunted. “You’re both so confident. If you don’t have faith in yourselves…”

  Neither man moved.

  “This is too good.” Michael shuffled his cards several times, flourishing them like a true magician. “I’ve got to get in on this.” He had learned only two card tricks in his youth and remembered only one; fortunately, it was this one. Like Mandrake, he expertly fanned the cards and held them out. “Pick one.”

  Simon and Busch looked at one another and finally reached out. Each drew a card, not sure where this was going. The alcohol was clearly getting the better of both as they sat there, card in hand, stupefied.

  “You have to look at it…” Michael admonished them.

  Busch could hardly focus but he was certain he was holding the king of clubs. Simon glanced at his jack of spades, swiftly drawing it to his chest, hiding it from the world.

  “Now put it back.” Michael held out the deck and each man slid his card back in. He shuffled several times, bridging the cards, rolling them along his hand for effect, then placed them on the floor. “If you would be so kind,” he said to Busch, “cut the deck.”

  Busch did as he was told.

  Michael turned to Simon. “Give me the top two cards.”

  Simon complied, handing the two facedown cards to Michael, who took them and placed them under the bottom of the two broken glasses.

  “I’ve put the winner’s card under the loser’s glass.” Michael threw down a hundred-dollar bill. “Count me in.”

  Simon and Busch looked to the jagged glasses upon the cards, questioning themselves and the insane choice before them.

  “What, you scared, holy man?” Busch mocked Simon drunkenly.

  “Not of you. Peaches.”

  Busch’s dander was up. They gripped their right hands, each going for the best hold possible. They braced their left arms against the floor for leverage and…

  “Call it!” they yelled in unison.

  Michael grabbed their clasped hands in his, assuring they were even and, more importantly, that they were lined up with the deadly spikes. Then in a voice scarcely above a whisper, he ordered: “Go.”

  Both were strong, muscles bulging, eyes determined. Their entwined arms seemed
to hang there for eternity, trembling like a revving car engine. Almost imperceptibly, Busch began to win, only by a fraction, but the braced arms were definitely canting in his favor. His brow wrinkled in concentration as his whole body quivered, but then…ever so slightly, Simon gained the advantage. Busch had never, absolutely never ever, lost to anyone in an arm wrestle. And yet this drunken priest was beginning to get the advantage.

  One minute gone.

  Their eyes locked, an intensity building like Michael had never seen: sweat beaded their brows. Their breathing came in fits and heaves. Two men unaccustomed to losing, each fiercely determined not to fail. And while it started as an alcoholic challenge, the whiskey evaporated in the heat being generated by the two combatants who now appeared to be as sober as the day was long.

  And then, slowly, it started to go Busch’s way again. Imperceptibly at first, but as the seconds ticked by, Simon’s hand continued inch by inch down toward the jagged glass. Busch would rather die than lose. The priest’s hand was halfway to being mangled and even with this bloody inevitability, Busch gritted his teeth and pushed on. Their eyes still locked upon each other, neither glanced at the glass shards.

  Suddenly, Simon’s descent stopped. The tendons in his neck were distended. His hand hung motionless in the chilled air inches above the glass. Their eyes dared each other toward defeat.

  Two minutes ticked by. Their stamina was beginning to wane.

  Somewhere deeper Busch descended, finding that extra bit, again inching Simon’s hand toward defeat. He continued pushing Simon, bit by bit, fraction by fraction.

  Simon’s hand was almost upon the jagged stem; he could feel its knife-like edge flicking the hairs at the back of his hand. And yet there was no fear in him—only steadfast determination. The pain of the wound would pale next to the unfamiliar agony of defeat.

  Michael had been sure that neither would go through with the ordeal and yet here he stood, eyes transfixed on what would surely be a gruesome conclusion.

  It was Busch who broke eye contact, if only for an instant. His eye was irresistibly drawn for a fleeting moment to the lethal crystal edge before he hastily looked back to his opponent.

  Simon didn’t flinch, his glare didn’t waver. The glass now pressed against his skin, the slightest motion would begin the slice. His hand was almost impaled when…

  Busch pulled out of the match. Simon’s hand snapped up like a spring released from its ruthless clasp. Not a word was spoken. Busch stared at the carpet, rubbing his arm. Simon’s eyes alternated between the glass and his hand.

  “Well.” Michael leaned down, scooping up the pile of money. “That was easy.” He stuffed the cash in his pocket.

  Busch and Simon looked up at Michael, uncomprehending. Busch was the first to realize what had just happened; he grabbed his card from under the broken glass and flipped it over. Five of spades. Simon grabbed and flipped over his…Eight of hearts. Neither card was the one they’d pulled. They looked up at Michael a bit confused, a lot pissed.

  “What are you—nuts?” Busch demanded.

  “I knew your humanity would outweigh your egos,” Michael said crisply.

  “Wait a minute. Wait a goddamn minute. You don’t win shit, my friend. You may think you’re smart but you blew the bet, you didn’t get either of our cards right.” He held out his hand. “Cough it up.”

  Michael ignored the cop’s outstretched hand. “Give me your knife,” Michael said to the priest.

  Simon paused only a moment, then he pulled his right pant leg up. He unsheathed the bowie knife strapped to his calf and passed it to Michael.

  Michael handed the deck of cards to Busch. “Throw ’em in the air.”

  Busch glared at Michael. If the liquor hadn’t fogged his mind, he would have smacked him by now.

  “Go on. Throw them high,” Michael pressed.

  Exhaling in exasperation, Busch tossed the cards in the air, creating a flurry of red and black. They floated there for an eternity until…With blinding speed, Michael threw the knife through the center of the falling mist of fifty…

  Fwack. Nailing two cards to the wall. The jack of spades and the king of clubs. The impaled cards that Bush and Simon had drawn hung there plain as day, the knife still shivering from impact. The room was silent until Busch finally cracked a huge smile and started to laugh. “That’s why he’s the quarterback,” he told Simon.

  “Son of a bitch,” Simon murmured. And for the first time in a long time, a grin lit up his thin dark face.

  Michael sat back down and kicked his feet up, a broad Cheshire-cat smile on his face. You could see it in his eyes; it was like he had cracked the code to Fort Knox. While Simon and Busch were locked in their inebriated combat, trying to break each other’s arm, Michael had finally come up with the answer he was looking for, that they were all looking for.

  He knew how to get the keys.

  Two a.m. The rain still falling. The hotel lobby was deserted. Torre Ericson had come down to Berlin from Sweden to work during his summer vacation. Torre had never traveled Europe but vowed to before next year when he hit twenty-one. Berlin had seemed as good a place as any to base from, and besides, the Hotel Friedenberg was the only place that offered him a job with two consecutive days off. Of course, it took a bit of adjustment to get used to the dead shift but Torre didn’t really mind. Dead was the operative word around here anyway, except maybe for the occasional caller seeking a late-night hooker, snack, or both. Nothing ever happened at the Hotel Friedenberg between midnight and six.

  So he was a bit surprised when the man stumbled in, soaked to the bone. The stranger coughed uncontrollably as he spun around, trying to get his bearings. This guy was in need of some coffee and a cell to sleep it off in in a bad way, Torre decided. He wasn’t worried, his six-foot frame was solid as granite from rock climbing and rugby. He had tossed many a drunk and this wouldn’t be his last. However, courtesy was the order of the day. “May I help you?” he offered in perfect German.

  The drunk stumbled toward the desk, seemingly oblivious to the question.

  Torre switched to English. “Some rain out there, huh?”

  Once again, the drunk didn’t answer. He staggered to the desk, draping his wet body over the counter, soaking the courtesy newspapers and guest register. “John S-Smith,” he slurred.

  “I’m sorry, all guests are sleeping now,” Torre said with more than a hint of annoyance.

  “Smith’s expecting me.”

  Yeah, right, Torre thought. He knew a line of bullshit when he heard one. “Perhaps you would like to leave a message; we could have Mr. Smith call you in the morning.”

  Torre didn’t see it coming; he was more worried about the man throwing up all over his counter. Before he could blink, the drunk whipped out a gun, pressing the barrel an inch above Torre’s stunned eyes.

  “I’d like to see the register, please,” the drunk demanded, in a clear ringing voice.

  There was no doubt in the young Swede’s mind that this man before him would rob him of his life in an instant if he didn’t immediately comply. But being twenty and cocky and still not having tasted his mortality, there were alternatives. Torre was quick, too.

  The drunk who was not a drunk didn’t flinch as Torre’s hand blurred out of nowhere, ripping the gun away.

  “Pull a gun on me, motherfucker?” The young concierge’s adrenaline pumped up his success. “You’re lucky I don’t shoot you where you stand.” He pointed the pilfered gun straight at the man’s heart.

  “Pretty quick,” the stranger said, drawing an embarrassed smile of pride from Torre.

  “When you fuck with best—”

  But Torre never finished the sentence. His body stumbled backward to the floor while a good portion of his head exploded, smearing the wall behind him. He never even saw the man draw the second gun, never saw him pull the trigger.

  Dennis Thal leapt over the concierge desk, ran his finger down the register’s sign-in, and stopped at Jude Iscariot
.

  How obvious, he thought.

  Two fifteen a.m., Michael and Busch were passed out on the couch and floor, respectively. The alcohol they’d polished off left them incapable of traveling the three feet to the bed. Simon was a different story: he had spent too many nights sitting up in wait for the inevitable problem and this night would be no different. The priest paced the room restlessly, having spent the last hour checking and rechecking his guns, all loaded, all ready. Michael had explained his plan, a solid one that could be adopted and executed if the three of them all worked together. Simon had worked out the logistics, mentally reviewing and modifying them several times over so as to play out every situation, every possibility. There would be no room for error and…no second chance.

  Thal stepped off the elevator. The hallway was empty. On each hotel room door hung a do-not-disturb sign along with a breakfast order. Several empty food carts littered the hall awaiting busboy pickup.

  Room 1283. Down the hall and to the left. Thal checked and rechecked both guns. That boy hadn’t even realized the safety was on. How foolish. If he hadn’t tried to be Superman, he would still be alive, albeit a little sore from being rendered unconscious. Everyone has to be a hero.

  Holstering his Glock, Thal walked with the Magnum dangling from his left hand. Three in the room: St. Pierre, Busch, and some priest. He hadn’t confirmed it, but the information came straight from his handler. Beware the priest, he was told. Thal found that amusing.

  Room 1283. He stood before the entrance, turning inward, gaining focus. His breathing grew shallow, his shoulders relaxed. He raised his leg to kick in the door.