The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  And just as quickly, the agony was gone. She still stood at the T. Left or right? The voices growing, like the roar of a stadium: the sound of men and women, the cries of scared children. All sounded confused, crying out to her for help like a city of lost souls. She went right, meandering for what seemed like hours, the frightened voices blotting out her own thoughts, confusion tearing her mind apart. She arrived at last at a door that stood out from the rest: black as ebony, old as dirt. She reached for the rusted knob. She entered.

  The face shocked her, terrified her. You never had to meet him to know instantly who he was.

  Her body was hit by that sharp force again, pain so great it seemed to lift her in the air, the white lights so brilliant they were blinding.

  Rhineheart leaned over Mary, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Not going to lose you that easily.”

  Mary lay there unconscious but alive, her heart returned to normal rhythm. The doctor looked up. “Let me know when she wakes up,” Rhineheart told the attending nurse.

  He turned to Nurse Schrier, who stood with a hint of mist in her eyes; he took the big woman by the arm and led her to a corner. “I don’t care what you do, you find her husband.” He headed for the door. “Her body’s failing fast. I don’t know how long she’ll last.”

  Chapter 30

  Simon and Michael were hunkered down in the forest twenty-five yards from the monstrous black gates of Finster’s estate. It had been two hours. They were at a disadvantage; Simon didn’t like it and neither did Michael. They had no idea of the exact count of men they would have to deal with before getting to the house. They made a rough estimate at twelve. That number would apply based on Michael’s intel from his first visit if the basic security points were manned. But those would be the minimal points covered by someone with limited resources. Finster didn’t fit that profile.

  And what if the keys weren’t there? If the man-count was at a minimum, they would have their answer. But if the keys were inside, well, then they would be facing an army. The trick was getting to the house before being detected. It was like capture the flag; the knack of the game was getting in the vicinity of the prize without being caught.

  “We’re running out of time,” Simon whispered. His earpiece contained a subvocal mike wired into his cell phone.

  “Patience,” Busch replied over the cell phone, his voice tinny, far off, the signal breaking up occasionally on account of the poor spread of cell towers in rural Germany. “He’ll show.”

  Simon wasn’t so sure now—too much time had elasped—but he’d never admit defeat.

  Twelve thirty a.m. and the line outside the club was still growing. The maroon velvet rope held back the hundreds of nobodies as the Somebodies were greeted and escorted in. The whole scene was frantic, reminding Busch of New York City’s golden age. Studio 54, The Tunnel, The Palladium. It was different then, the music was better—every generation possesses superiority about their music—the snobbery was less, and it didn’t cost you two weeks’ salary to have a good time.

  He stood near the door, having identified himself to the bouncers earlier as a New York cop working with Interpol to bring back a fugitive. There would be no raid, no bust for drugs, underage patrons, or lewd behavior. Busch would quietly watch his man and when the time was appropriate, he would discreetly make his move. The bouncer was only too willing to cooperate, after Busch’s assurances. The five hundred euros didn’t hurt, either.

  Busch was not looking forward to entering; he hated the techno scene, the thumping music, the incoherent lyrics mixed with inane rapping. He was a Springsteen-or-nothing kind of guy. He had to get Finster into the club unsuspecting, unaware of where he really was. It was the only way if Michael and Simon were to have any chance of success.

  “Busch?” Simon said in Busch’s earpiece.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why Peaches?”

  “It’s killing you, isn’t it?” Busch leaned against the club’s doorway.

  “Just killing time.”

  “Old girlfriend from Georgia, loved the Allman Brothers’ album Eat a Peach, she always called me her New York Peach.”

  “Really?” Simon’s voice came back with suspicion.

  “Allman Brothers story?” Michael whispered to Simon. He was lying in the grass watching the gates through the binoculars. Simon nodded. Michael shook his head. “It’s his wife’s name for a certain part of his body.”

  Simon stifled a laugh.

  Busch was beyond upset. Though Michael didn’t have an earpiece in, he could hear the raving coming from Simon’s ear. “What did he say? Did he say—”

  “Hey, relax.” Simon cut Busch off.

  “Relax, my ass—”

  But then there was silence. Obvious silence. “Busch? He’s only pulling your chain.” Nothing. “Paul, you there?” Simon tapped his earpiece, “Can you hear me?” Michael looked over, eyes questioning. “Quit screwing around.” Simon was suddenly deeply serious.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Busch’s voice came in, clear and grim. “He’s here.”

  The limo pulled up and out stepped the three arm charms, Audrey, Zoe, and Joy, each sensuous, breathtaking, their rainbow of hair blowing in the summer breeze. The three women flanked the car door as all eyes watched. Finster emerged to the kind of oohs and ahhs usually reserved for celebrities at the Academy Awards. The crowds parted like the Red Sea before the entourage as the quartet walked up the red carpet. Whispers, cheering, and catcalls mixed into the reverie as the velvet-rope hopefuls craned their necks to see the industrial giant and his beauties.

  Busch slipped silently into the club from his perch at the door, parked himself in a corner, and monitored through the doorway as the bouncer held back the velvet rope and bid the celebrity party welcome. Busch watched as they stepped through the door and straight to the dance floor. An invisible barrier seemed to precede them as they did so, dancers stepping aside as if out of respect. People either stared or ignored Finster, enamored with his presence or completely oblivious to it. An oblivion entered into by drink, drugs, or ego. The charisma that Finster possessed was overwhelming; it was as if he owned the club, the people, the world.

  Busch leaned against the far end of the bar and ordered a straight Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. He was out of his element now; his plain khaki pants and denim shirt made him a bull’s-eye right out of a Gap ad. He had never seen so many pierced body parts in all his life. Ears, noses, lips, and brows; bellies, nipples, cheeks, even chins. His mind wandered to the gutter and easily imagined several more spots ripe for piercing. And the tattoos…he had seen an awful lot of felons in his time and they had painted their bodies with untold numbers of works, none too creative, themes mostly running to mother, sweethearts, or fantasy. But here the money ran deep: these people could buy a Mona Lisa for their body mosaic.

  Busch flipped open his phone, stuffed the earpiece in his ear, hit redial. He saw the connection made but could barely hear Simon on the other end over the deafening music. He sipped his drink and merely said in a loud clear voice, “We are a go.”

  Busch didn’t wait for a reply; he flipped the phone closed and stuffed it in his pocket. He leaned with his back against the bar and tilted his chin up. The ceiling soared one hundred feet above, he could make out the thick wooden rafters that were placed two hundred years earlier. The smoky haze was thick up there. He imagined the original architect’s shock had he lived to see the day where his masterpiece was desecrated by this unforeseen future. The music pounding as bodies writhed in a clothed sexual orgy. Drinks flowed. Drugs abounded. A modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. This was hedonism at its best.

  Busch stayed at the bar; not for drink, but rather because it placed him directly between Finster and the exit. The only exit. Busch couldn’t believe the bodies crammed into this place; there had to be five hundred strong and easily double that waiting outside. A firetrap for sure—and that did give him pause, what with his fear of the flame and all, but he cou
ld overcome it for now—still, it was the only way out. There was no way Finster could leave without Busch knowing. The plan was rolling now, he even began to feel hopeful. Simon and Michael were surely well into their endgame. It had been a risk. Finster could have gone several places this night but here, this place called Rapture, was fitting in more ways than anyone realized.

  Finster was in. And as far as Busch was concerned, he wasn’t leaving.

  Al Graham did a stint in the National Guard and was in Desert Storm, although he landed on February 28, 1991, the last day of fighting, and never saw any action. In point of fact, Al had never once fired his gun in a combat situation. He had fallen under the command of Colonel T. C. Roberts, a mean-ass, leather-necked, sandfucker marine who could stare down a scorpion. The colonel had called him just four weeks ago enticing him with this cushy assignment with amazing pay. And if he was lucky, maybe he would get to shoot his gun at a live target for a change.

  Al stood point with Javeed Waquim twenty-five yards up the driveway. They were the gatekeepers, but it was a pretty sturdy gate in their estimation, so the two men didn’t pay much attention to it. No one had ever made an attempt on their employer, Mr. Finster, and anyway who would be foolish enough to challenge the estate’s security precautions and guards? The colonel had informed them earlier that evening that this would be their last night and that as a result of their outstanding service they would each receive a bonus of five thousand American dollars come morning. To top it off, the colonel had offered them each a position as “peacekeepers” for some African military dictator who was looking to start an uprising. Six months pay upfront and a guarantee that on this assignment they would get to fire their guns. But Al and Javeed never got the chance. They were both dead before they hit the ground.

  Michael had made quick work of the Hiecen laser monitors, quickly patching in a by-pass. He and Simon scrambled over the fifteen-foot wall and pulled the bodies into the woods at the side of the drive. Simon ripped off Al’s headset, shaking the blood away. Then he pulled Al’s radio from his waist and set it down on the ground next to his knapsack. Simon reached in and pulled out a small black box the size of a paperback book with a speaker and several LEDs. He hadn’t used a frequency analyzer/scrambler in years, but it was still pretty basic. He put on Al’s blood-encrusted headset and hit a button. The slight static cut out as the radio went into talk mode; it was still working. Simon flipped on the little black box and pulled up its antenna. He hit the talk button again. The black box went into scan mode. After about three seconds, a green LED lit up and the screen displayed the radio’s frequency; Simon clipped the box to his belt.

  The woods of Finster’s estate were thick and dark as pitch. Simon wore a nightscope on his left eye, moving slowly as he scanned back and forth. Michael was right behind, doing his best not to lose sight of Simon. The closer they got to the house, the worse his stomach felt. The bad feeling that had started with his first kill grew with every step. They both held HK MP5s; Simon had taken the liberty of modifying the chamber and installing a silencer on each. They were dual-mode weapons capable of firing either a single shot or, when the trigger was fully depressed, fourteen rounds per second. The priest had spent a good part of the late afternoon and early evening teaching Michael how to use their assortment of weapons. How not to let the machine gun ride up as you shot, how to steady the gun, how to mark your target and not hesitate. The nine-millimeter Glock pistols they each wore contained seventeen rounds per with one in the chamber. Simon didn’t waste time teaching Michael the Israeli Galil sniper rifle; it took years of practice to become a marksman. And an expert marksman, that had to be a gift.

  The radio squealed in Simon’s ear. “Checkpoint.”

  “Alpha,” a deep voice said.

  “Bravo,” came the next.

  “Charlie…Delta…Edward…Francis…Gary…” Each voice was different, each responded in a rehearsed fashion. “Hooper…Isaac…Jack…”—there was a brief pause, then—“Luke…Mark…Nathan…Oscar…”—another pause—“Quint…Richard…Steven…Thomas.”

  A different voice, one with authority, spoke. “Kevin? Paul? Come back.”

  Simon immediately hit the frequency jammer on his belt, two quick hits sending a static signal across the band.

  “Come again?”

  Simon again hit the jammer, this time intermittently while saying, “Signal problem.” Of course it came across the headset as “Sig—…lem.”

  “Hold your position, I’ll send someone down.”

  Simon responded only by hitting the jammer. He grabbed Michael by the arm and they moved toward the road. In the distance they heard a motorcycle start up, its engine kicking in loud. “We’ve got eighteen, plus whoever is in charge,” Simon reported as he took up a position by the side of the road. He pulled out the Galil rifle with its fat high-powered nightscope.

  “Nineteen guards,” Michael repeated. “And how are we going to get past nineteen?”

  Simon screwed the silencer on the end of the barrel and did not answer.

  The motorcycle was nearer. Simon lay flat in the grass. He unfolded the buttstock, flipped down the bipod, and attached it one-third back from the muzzle propping up the rifle. The light of the approaching cycle sliced through the trees. He slammed in the twenty-round cartridge and drew a bead on the middle of the road.

  “Nineteen,” Michael said again.

  The whine of the bike was growing louder by the second, its pitch increasing courtesy of the Doppler effect. Simon kept his focus on the road. The glare of the cycle’s light lit up the drive in front of them. The biker was almost there. Simon shrugged his shoulders, flexed his fingers, twisted his neck. He put his eye back to the lens piece. The biker was twenty yards off. Going at least sixty. Simon inhaled deep and held his breath. And, without fanfare, he pulled the trigger.

  The muted rifle sounded like the pop of a toy gun. The guard slammed backward off the bike, the bullet catching him square in the forehead. He hit the ground, tumbling and cartwheeling like a sack of bones. The bike continued on, veering wildly before crashing out into the woods. The guard ground to a halt just feet from them, his body torn worse than his clothes. Simon wasted no time throwing the rifle over his shoulder and grabbing the corpse. With Michael’s help, they dragged it into the woods.

  The smoke hung sour in the air, the stink of cigarettes and other smokables would permeate his clothes for days. Busch hated this scene: the loud music with no coherent lyrics seemed to him the sounds of a pounding rivet factory; the flashing lights left heavy black spots behind his eyes. Was it really that much different when he was younger? He never felt a generation gap like he was feeling right now in this bastard descendant of a German beer hall and Studio 54.

  It had been an hour and the silver-haired mogul with the energy of a teenager was still pumping and grinding on the dance floor with his three ladies of the evening. Not a drink, not a rest. The guy had to be flying on something, no one could last that long, moving with that intensity. None of them looked worse for the wear, though, appearing as fresh as when they first arrived.

  Busch was tempted to call Michael for an update but was afraid a ringing phone would be a distraction. His sole job tonight was to make sure that Finster didn’t leave. As long as he was within the walls of the club, Finster was powerless. Judging by the rapturous dancing, he wasn’t going anywhere. Michael and Simon would have all the time they needed. And as he nursed his drink, looking at the beautiful women, Busch thought he may have gotten the easier task of the night.

  Finster and the girls continued to dance. Working the crowd. Moving through the dance floor. Pumping everyone up. He occasionally turned to the other dancers, hip-swaying in a seductive way with the gorgeous women of the club. And that was what Busch found so amazing: the women were completely captivated, no one ignored this white-haired guy as he drew closer, all entirely forgot their boyfriends for the moment. Yet no one lashed out, it was like the night owls of Germany held Finste
r in reverence. Maybe they all hoped that a little bit of his magic would rub off. Busch suddenly realized the source of the billionaire’s unending energy: he fed off of this—the envy, the lust, the way they were enamored of his presence.

  As the music built to a frenzy, everyone, the dancers, the drinkers, the druggies, all were pulled toward Finster like he was a magnet relentlessly drawing their attention to him. Busch studied this strange quirk in human behavior and for the life of him couldn’t figure it out. But he knew one thing. This was what Finster craved; it was a kind of power, one he flexed at will, supremely confident in its strength. He could be the worst kind of cult leader, his charisma pulling in followers by the thousands, making a Jim Jones retreat or any of those fanatical suicide cults seem like a Cub Scout meeting. Perhaps that was how he held sway in business, charming his way through deals, his allure a deceptive knife, a lethal ally in taking down his opposers.

  The song reached fever pitch and everyone was drawn, staring from the sidelines and balconies, dancing about Finster as if he was the chief of the tribe. All eyes were upon him, Finster felt them. The bartenders, the DJ, the entire crowd. All eyes except one pair.