The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  And then Kelley was there, racing down the elegant stairs. Seeing Susan bound, silently squirming on the floor, he instinctively raced to her aid. But he never got close; the three men materialized and were instantly all over him. He tried to punch his way out of the swarm only to be felled by a swift blow to the back of the head. He writhed in pain on the ground as they threw a black hood over his head. Though he seemed dazed, he kicked and flung his arms about, striking one of his attackers in the face, drawing blood. But he quickly lost the battle as they tied him up. Throughout the entire ordeal not a word was said, not a scream or shout uttered, as if the whole scene was in a silent movie. The men were efficient, with an economy of motion and a seeming lack of emotion.

  Despite the fact that Kelley was over six feet and weighed a solid two hundred pounds, the middle man effortlessly threw him over his shoulder. There was no struggle left in Kelley as the three men raced out the front door with their quarry into a waiting black town car.

  Michael sat in the wing-back chair, his heart racing as he watched the tall man walk through the library. He placed the black leather folio against a chair, unzipped it, and withdrew a manila folder.

  “My name is Julian.” The accent was Italian, belonging to a man who looked to be in his early thirties. He dressed in an Armani blazer, dark blue, worn over a pale yellow shirt. The man was polished and had an air of superiority about him. His hair was blond, collar-length, expertly cut. His ice-blue eyes possessed no emotion, laying bare the false sincerity of his smile. His face was almost too handsome and yet looked vaguely familiar; Michael trolled his mind but, for the moment, couldn’t place it.

  Michael glanced over at the guard who remained still and silent as his Italian charge walked about the room, examining it as if he were there to purchase the home. “What do you want?” Michael demanded as he abruptly stood.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” Julian said as he found and opened up the bar. “Scotch, beer, juice, water, perhaps?” The man offered as if this were his home.

  “Why is your friend blocking the door?” Michael said.

  Julian dismissed his bodyguard with a wave of his hand.

  Michael watched the large bodyguard leave and moved toward the door. “Where is Kelley, is this a game of his?”

  “No game”—the man smiled—“at least not to me. Why don’t you sit, let’s talk a bit.”

  Michael stopped and stared at the man. Only those with power or egos traveled with bodyguards and this was a man who appeared not to relinquish anything; there was no question in Michael’s mind that the guard was standing on the other side of the door sealing Michael in. Michael opened his hands in question. “Where is Kelley?”

  “Farther out of your reach than he has ever been.” Julian handed Michael the manila file. Michael placed it on a side table without bothering to look at it.

  Julian looked at Michael, put his drink on the end table, and sat in one of the wing chairs, bidding Michael to do the same. Michael begrudgingly complied and stared at the man. They assessed each other for a moment before Julian’s face grew focused, intent.

  He took a deep breath. “I love my art. I’ve spent years acquiring some of the finest pieces in all the world. A great deal of time spent seeking masterpieces thought lost to history. Grandies Mon Chat by Rugio, Hamilion on the Lake by Cvice. Some took years to locate, using obscure sources, paid informants”—Julian cast a glance at Michael—“thieves. Whatever it took to acquire my desire, I was willing to pay, I was willing to wait. Sometimes…as long as seven years.” Julian leaned back in the chair.

  Michael sat there as Julian’s pause dragged on. “Seven years?”

  “The amount of time it took me to locate The Bequest.”

  Michael tried to read the man, realizing he was being pulled into a chess match. “The Bequest?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe you forgot. The painting you stole from me.”

  As Julian’s words began to settle, Michael’s mind went into a tailspin, and the pieces started to fall into place. This man before him, this Julian, was Julian Zivera, Genevieve’s son, the man Genevieve was so afraid of. Whom she had called the most dangerous of men. Michael’s confusion turned to anger as he knew that this was only the beginning.

  “You stole my painting, Michael. You slipped into Switzerland and stole a painting I spent seven years searching for.” There was an almost surreal calmness to the man and his words, so contrary to the situation he was speaking of.

  Michael looked at the closed door to the library.

  “You’re thinking about where to go, what to do. But, before you run”—Julian smiled—“I suggest you look at that folder.”

  Michael glanced at the manila folder sitting on the table, realizing its contents could only portend disaster, and slowly picked it up.

  “I own you, Michael.” Julian’s false smile dissolved.

  Michael opened the folder and felt his world fall off its axis. It was filled with press clippings on the mysterious break-in at an office building in Switzerland, followed by grainy nighttime photos of himself running across the snow-covered bridge in Geneva.

  “The pieces weren’t hard to put together. You”—Julian pointed a scolding finger at Michael—“were my mother’s favorite thief.”

  Michael looked at Julian, his emotions running between fear and rage.

  “I know my mother bid you to steal my painting. And I know you have what was concealed within.”

  Michael said nothing, knowing that he had destroyed it—sliced it up and dissolved it in acid, forever casting its existence to the wind.

  “I searched years for it and just when it was in my grasp…well, now I’ve got something better. I have my own personal thief.” Julian’s smile returned. “You and your talents are going to acquire something for me. You and I are going to enter into a deal, Michael.”

  Michael hated bosses, taking orders, being at someone’s beck and call, and above all he hated blackmail.

  “A deal for a box that I need you to find. And I am willing to trade you for it. Many would say it would be a fair trade. Not only will I not turn that file on you over to Interpol, but I will offer you something of far greater value. Something irreplaceable—something you have searched for, longed for.”

  “I will not—”

  “You will,” Julian cut in, his voice low, filling with anger. His face grew red, the tendons in his neck distended, in emotion so divergent from his appearance and prior demeanor. He rubbed his right temple as if it would somehow dispel his rage. “As I was saying,” Julian continued. “You will bring me this priceless, one of a kind antique box called Albero della Vita. A golden work of art, it has been hidden for centuries, thought lost in a place many would find terrifying to penetrate. But for someone of your mind, it would be the greatest of challenges.”

  “I don’t need any more ego challenges,” Michael said, trying to control his quavering voice, his wrath staying just below the surface. “I don’t bend to blackmail. I suggest you look for someone else. Someone who has something to prove, someone with a greedy heart.”

  “I don’t think anyone else is up to the task, nor will they desire the remuneration I can provide.” Julian slowed his cadence. “The payment for this is of value only to you.”

  “What could you possibly have that I would want?”

  “I will trade you this simple box for Stephen Kelley. Your father.”

  And as Michael thought on this, he knew that this man before him, underneath all of his spit and polish, his subtle accent, underneath all his smiles and charm, was beyond ruthless. He was as cold and as dangerous as Genevieve was good, hoping to leverage Michael’s heart for his material gain.

  “I’ve never met the man until today. And whether he is my father or not, I don’t give in to those who try to play on my feelings for their own personal benefit.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Julian broke out in another smile and began shaking his head.

 
Michael sat there, every nerve on fire, every ounce of his being wanting to charge across the room and strangle this man who had kidnapped his father. A man who hunted his own mother, destroyed her world.

  “How could you do what you did to Genevieve, to your own mother?” Michael said, his voice thick with disgust.

  “As much as you may think I brought her to harm, you are wrong. I loved my mother, I still love my mother.” Julian began to reflect, his eyes looking inward. “I thought I knew her. After all, she raised me, loved me. But she had so many secrets, Michael. I never suspected…”

  “Suspected what?”

  “Do you know what it is like to have a family member who is virtually a stranger, who hides their deepest secrets from you? Do you know what it is like to have a parent disappear out of your life, leaving you with so many unanswered questions? Who they are, who you are, where you truly come from?” Julian paused, lost in thought. He finally looked Michael in the eye and smiled. “We now have something in common.”

  “What is so special about this box?” Michael reluctantly asked.

  “What’s so special about it?” Julian echoed with curious disdain trailing off to silence. He sat back in his chair and stared at Michael. It was a moment before he leaned in to make his point. “What is so special about the Mona Lisa, The Last Judgment, the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s David? They are unique, singular expressions of perfection conveying the interpretation of beauty through the mind of the artist, yet all the while concealing the mystery of his own heart, of his very creation.” Julian paused a moment as he refocused. “What’s so special about this box, Michael, is your father’s life; if you don’t bring it to me, he will die.”

  Julian stood and placed his glass on the mantel before turning back to Michael. “You are going to find this box and you are going to bring it to me.”

  Michael felt his world folding in on him, as he had felt before when his hand was being forced. “And even if I was to do this, the planning, mapping a route, finding the exact location, the logistics, I would need resources, intel…”

  “This will get you started, give you a little history lesson.” Julian tapped the leather portfolio that lay propped against the chair. “You will meet a man named Fetisov in Moscow, in Red Square; he will assist with whatever supplies or further information you require.”

  “Moscow?” Michael said in shock.

  “Wipe the Cold War version from your mind. It’s very cosmopolitan, vibrant, a wonderful backdrop for a thief like you. As for mapping a route to the resting place of the box…That should be easy. Just follow the map.”

  “What map?” Michael asked.

  “The one you stole in Switzerland, the one concealed behind my painting. Don’t you dare insult my intelligence by telling me you didn’t slice it open and look with wonder on what I should have rightly been the first to see in five hundred years.”

  Michael’s body remained still, his eyes unwavering as the panic overtook him. He had cut open the painting and gazed in wonder—and confusion—at the hidden depiction, at the map hidden within. And as Genevieve requested, he destroyed the painting and the map, fulfilling her desire to keep it out of her son Julian’s possession.

  Zivera pulled a cell phone from his jacket and threw it to Michael. Michael made no attempt to catch it, letting it hit him in the chest and fall to the floor. “I expect your call from Red Square, at ten a.m. tomorrow—Moscow time.”

  “And if I don’t agree?”

  “Well, Michael, would you be willing to give up your father the way he willingly gave you up?”

  Michael stared at Julian, particularly his eyes, and where you would customarily see life, there was nothing. Michael had faced true evil before, and it didn’t look much different than this. The man before him had no feelings, no regard for anything other than his own goals. And Michael was terrified. He fully grasped Genevieve’s dire warning, her fear of this man that she called her son.

  “This is your fault, Michael. Let’s be clear. If you had just left me alone, let my painting be, we wouldn’t be together in this beautiful home of your father’s as he is being violently dragged out of this country. I watched as he desperately struggled against my men. I will say, he is pretty tough for a man in his late fifties. But I can’t imagine his heart will hold up against the torture I will inflict upon him if you do not comply with my wishes.

  “I will not kill him right away. I will let him suffer. I will tell him that he owes this suffering all to you, all to the fact that you so recklessly stole something from me.

  “Parents, no matter what they do, inform our character whether it is through love or neglect, through acts of affection or careless abandonment. As much as we want to deny it, they are part of our foundation, part of our fabric. And as you are now coming to realize, parents always pay the price for their children’s transgressions.”

  “You hunted your mother…” Michael said through gritted teeth.

  “And I captured your father. And the only way he is going to realize salvation is if you do exactly as I say. If you go to the cops, he will die and you will be arrested not only for stealing artwork in Europe, but for his death. If you ignore my indentured servitude, he will die. Not fast, mind you, slowly, with a great deal of suffering. I’m sure my mother explained my contradictions, my depravity.” Julian picked up his glass and walked to the bar, refilling his drink. “She always so underestimated me.”

  And the blood rushed from Michael’s head, his mental balance lost, the guilt already welling up inside him for having placed a man he never knew, a man he had sought out, whom Mary begged him to find, in mortal danger. He couldn’t think of him as his father; Kelley was just someone who had turned his back on him. But that didn’t stop Michael from already feeling Kelley’s blood on his hands.

  “So.” Julian shook out his shoulders, clapped his hands together. His mood spun one hundred and eighty degrees to one of jovial optimism. “The city of Moscow sits atop a vast array of tunnels and caverns, many of which were man-made and date back centuries. Many of these tunnels are mapped and inhabited by an underground culture of the destitute, bohemian, and the adventurous. But there is one area that many have not ventured into for five hundred years. And those who have were never heard from again. That is where you will be going. Within this underground complex is a place concealed by Tsar Ivan Vasilyevich, a man who the world fondly called Ivan the Terrible. A library rumored to hold antiquities and riches beyond the imagination. A hidden secret in a place of secrets.” Zivera took a deep breath as if to calm himself.

  “Where underground?” Michael asked not wanting to know the answer.

  “I’m sure you have heard of it. In Russian it means ‘citadel.’” Julian paused, taking a moment to sip his drink. “But the world knows it affectionately as the Kremlin.”

  Michael let out a mock laugh. “You have got to be kidding me!”

  “I assure you, Michael, I do not kid around on matters such as these.” Julian’s pale blue eyes became intense. “If you are not standing in the middle of Red Square tomorrow morning, I will kill your father. If you do not retrieve the Albero della Vita in seven days, no more, Stephen Kelley will be dead before you have even had a chance to get to know him.”

  Paul Busch stirred in his sleep. He was dreaming of baseball and Jeannie. They were alone in the middle of Fenway Park with their two children, Robbie and Chrissie, who were inhaling hot dogs. The Red Sox were down twelve–nothing to the Yankees and the Boston crowd was on the verge of rioting. Every fan was dressed in Sox colors, everyone except Paul and his family, who wore Yankee pin-striped blue, and at that very moment every Bo Sox fan noticed, their collective anger turning from the field to seats 12A through D. Paul started to sweat, he could feel the moisture trickling down his back, down his chest. He began looking for an exit, for a way out. He and Jeannie took the kids by the hand; Paul charged left; Jeannie pulled right. They were both defiant, pigheaded in the certainty of their escape. And
then the fans moved toward them, getting closer, their chanting like a lion’s roar.

  Busch bolted upright in his car seat, his heart pounding, a glaze of sweat covered his body. He had fallen asleep on Cambridge Street in Boston with the car turned off and the windows up. The sun pounded his face, heating the car to one hundred and five. Busch looked around, looked at his watch. He opened the door of the Corvette, reveling in the morning air, which was at least thirty degrees cooler. He cursed himself for not putting the top down. He got out of his car, locked it, and headed toward Franklin Street. There was no sign of Michael and he hadn’t called. Busch was concerned but hoped he was overreacting. He walked past the stretch of elegant town houses and continued to 22 Franklin.

  When he noticed the front door open, his heart raced into double time. He leapt up the stairs in seconds and came upon a woman who was tearing herself from bindings. Busch had never seen anger like he did in this woman’s eyes.

  Busch stood over her, her wrists bruised from the ropes, her mouth still red from tearing off the duct tape. She was calming herself, turning inward, her breathing controlled as she seemed to be gaining composure. Busch offered his hand to help her up, but she ignored it.

  But then her calm washed away as she quickly stood and charged at the library doorway. Michael stood there holding the open door; he had a bewildered look on his face as if he had just seen the face of death and couldn’t comprehend it.

  But then the woman’s fist snapped him out of his fog as she connected with his jaw. She recocked her hand but Michael caught this one in midair.

  “What have you done with Stephen?” she screamed. And she didn’t let up, her punches coming faster now. Michael was doing everything in his power to ward off the onslaught without returning aggression.