The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  During today’s workout, he ran hard on the treadmill, clocking in seven minute miles. Not bad for a fifty-eight-year-old. He had always run for fun, for fitness, to stay young and strong of heart. He pushed himself to the limit and though he didn’t compete anymore, he imagined every run as if he were racing for the finish line. In all his years, he had never thought of it as a means of survival. Up until three days ago, he never thought he would have to run for his life.

  He erased his self-pity, his hopelessness. He felt an obligation to himself, like any soldier in a war camp. He was compelled; it was his duty. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know when, but he had already made his decision. He wasn’t waiting for Michael or anyone to come rescue him.

  And as he regained his frame of mind, a thought occurred to him: he had been so worried about being rescued, waiting to be saved, he neglected to think of Michael and the dangers he was facing. He realized Michael was confronting a much greater risk than he was sitting in this plush seaside suite. Arrest, injury, death—Michael was risking it all for a father he never knew, a father who had forsaken him.

  And in an obtuse way, he thought maybe this wasn’t about Michael saving him, but the other way around. Maybe he had to save Michael, to finally be the father to him that he never was. He had the chance to regain a son he had lost and he wasn’t going to let it slip away this time.

  Somehow, Stephen resolved, he would escape.

  Chapter 45

  Paul Busch ran through the streets of Moscow, alone and hunted. The anger and betrayal he felt toward Fetisov was only matched by the fear that he would never see his wife, Jeannie, and their two children again. She had told him not to go. She didn’t warn him, she didn’t demand, she simply told him not to. She was right.

  On more than one occasion, she had told him that one of these days he was going to stick his neck out too far and get his head chopped off. He was hoping to prove her wrong. He hated when she was right. Which she turned out to be all the time. And it was one of the reasons he loved her. He loved waking up next to her in the morning. He loved that she was tougher than anyone he had ever met on the outside, but was kinder and gentler than anyone he had ever known on the inside. During all of his years on the police force, she never questioned his devotion to the job, never voiced her fears about his exposure to the dangers of the underworld. But ever since his retirement from the force she expected him to put the danger behind him, and that had proven difficult. He loved the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline, the pursuit of doing the right thing.

  And that’s what he thought he was doing here in Russia: the right thing. Julian Zivera, a man many thought to be the essence of spiritual humanity, was blackmailing Michael with the life of his father, a father Michael never even knew. Well, Michael was his best friend and Busch was just as determined to help find the man and bring him back as Michael was. Busch excelled in these situations: it was a skill developed over years as a detective. Busch loved the hunt. But now he was the one on the run in a foreign city with a foreign language. And he hated being on this end of the chase.

  Busch had exited the Russian military truck, leaving Nikolai gasping for breath. Busch half expected to be shot in the back as he ran, but the shot never came. He did his best to pinpoint the source of the sirens and found them only two blocks from where they had been sitting in traffic. All congregated around the ambulance that had raced out of the Kremlin.

  Busch watched the mass of soldiers holding back the onlookers while their brethren held their quarry at bay in the middle of the street. Michael was surrounded by at least fifty soldiers who remained a good twenty feet back from him. They were all waiting. No one moved. And then a single man parted the group and approached Michael. There was no doubt in Busch’s mind who the man was. He had seen him up close. Though they did not formally meet, they would know each other on sight at any time. They had stood less than ten feet apart, face-to-face. The man was muscular; his silver-flecked black hair didn’t move in the breeze. His sleeves were rolled up, he carried two monstrous pistols as he walked toward Michael. His tattooed arms were the surest of giveaways. He was the man dressed as a doctor. He was the man in the gas mask who shot his way through the bulletproof glass, out of the smoke-filled operating theater. There was no doubt in his mind that this Russian would do nothing short of removing Michael from this earth.

  Busch stood there, trying to blend into the crowd of onlookers. His heart raced for Michael’s safety; he couldn’t bear to watch his execution, but remained riveted nonetheless. He couldn’t hear their exchange of words and almost shouted as he watched the man raise his arm to strike. Busch thought Michael was surely about to die but breathed a warped sigh of relief as he was only knocked unconscious. They loaded Michael into the back of one of the trucks and drove out of there to what Busch thought could only be one place: the Kremlin.

  Busch remained until the crowd dispersed and then fell into the pedestrian traffic along Viskya ulitsa. He was alone, on his own, and his best friend was now in danger of being killed behind the secretive walls of the seat of the Russian government. His thoughts of saving Michael’s dad, of finding Genevieve, of ensuring the safety of the box, all became secondary to the impossible task before him. He had get to back into the Kremlin to save Michael; he didn’t know how, but he would find a way.

  Chapter 46

  Michael awoke in a darkened room. A single low-wattage bulb hung from the ceiling. He was on a springless cot; the smell of death and urine rising out of the thin mattress assaulted his senses. The room was at least thirty feet square, formed of stone block walls, with a narrow off-center door at the far end with a small barred window to what he imagined to be a hall filled with similar accommodations.

  Iron chains, thick with rust, hung from the ceiling, their manacles wide open, waiting for a new captive. A wooden cross, its thick timbers adjoined at the center by heavy rope, was propped against the wall, its arms darkened with ancient bloodstains. A large wooden head press lay before a chair, caked in centuries-old human remains.

  There was no doubt where Michael was; it was well marked on Genevieve’s subterranean map but he had no reason to seek it out. Its location had been thought lost till this day. But that obviously was not the case. As Michael looked around at the devices, he thought of the men and women who were subjected to the most heinous of acts, many of which were perpetrated for the simple pleasure of the room’s designer. Ivan the Terrible’s torture chamber had attained mythic status, but what Michael was looking at was no myth.

  His head throbbed from where Raechen struck him and from the swirling memories of betrayal: how he saw the warning signs too late, how he didn’t question Fetisov’s true allegiance from the beginning. As he ran the events over again in his mind, it had to be Fetisov. He had to be the one who had Genevieve. He had sent Lexie into the cistern to find the golden box ahead of them; Fetisov was the one that said he knew where the ambulance was going; he told Michael where to go; he knew the contents of the decoy emergency vehicle. God only knew where Genevieve was or if she was even alive.

  And then one thought erased all the others: Susan. If they had him they might be going for her, and that he couldn’t bear. There was no doubt in his mind that if someone stole Genevieve from them, they were surely also going for the box. What type of salvation could be hidden in something so small that it was worth killing for?

  He prayed that by some miracle Susan would somehow manage to get out of Moscow; that Busch was still free; that Martin had the wherewithal to spirit them away before the harsh forces of Russia came down. But somehow he knew that wasn’t the case. The fear, the anticipation, was killing Michael. Susan was in the greatest of dangers. He had to get out of here, but realized the chances were slim to none. He knew firsthand that things could be hidden away in the Kremlin for five hundred years without ever being found.

  He heard footsteps in the hall, coming closer, a lone individual. Michael sat up on the cot, his neck stiff and aching. He r
an his hands up his face and through his brown hair as if it would somehow clear his mind and make room for a solution to be found, but none came.

  The lock of the cell door jostled and the door creaked open. Standing there was the man who struck him down, who had rendered him unconscious: Raechen.

  “Do you realize you have killed my son?” the tall Russian said as he walked into the room.

  Michael looked at him standing there in the subtle glow of the dim light. A deep sorrow matched the rage in his eyes. And Michael knew that was the worst of combinations. It made a man desperate, relentless, without sympathy. Michael had known the same feelings, brought about when his wife, Mary, was taken ill. He stopped at nothing to save her.

  “I don’t understand,” Michael muttered as he stood up.

  “He is six years old and he is dying. You stole his last hope, the only chance he had.”

  Michael looked at the Russian, confusion on his face.

  “Those doctors you shot down, those doctors that you and your partners so ruthlessly killed in cold blood, were the only ones who could have saved him. He is my joy, he is the only good I see in this world and you stole his last chance, his and my last hope.”

  The suffering on Raechen’s face became almost unbearable. Michael was overwhelmed by his words. He began to see the passion that drove the man before him; it was the same passion that had driven him to save Mary.

  “I’m sorry…I would never intentionally hurt your son.”

  Raechen grabbed Michael by the throat. “When you killed those doctors you killed my son.”

  “We didn’t kill anyone,” Michael gasped. Busch had said things had gone wrong but he never said anything about—

  Raechen slammed his fist into Michael’s face, knocking him back onto the cot. Michael knew fighting back would be a useless action, accelerating the timetable of his death.

  Raechen looked about the cell. “This chamber, this room, could tell stories of agony that would stop a man’s heart. I thought to employ some of Ivan’s devices on you but my time is short and I have a far better method than these five-hundred-year-old pieces of machinery.”

  The Russian grabbed Michael by the arm and dragged him out of the cell into a long stone hallway. The battleship-gray floor was covered in dust, evidence of lack of use. The halls were lit by intermittent bulbs strung from the ceiling in a makeshift manner, casting this forgotten world in heavy shadows. But for two metal chairs, a table with a boiling pot of coffee on it, and a half-empty bottle of vodka, there was no sign of civilization.

  Raechen pulled Michael down the long, dim hallway past several more cells until they arrived at an open elevator. Two guards flanked the door, rifles held across their chest as they stared straight ahead. Raechen said nothing as he thrust Michael into the elevator cab, and hit a button. Michael kept his head down but was committing everything to memory: the size of the cell hallway, the size of the guards, the weapons they carried. The elevator floor buttons were marked in Russian numbers, eight of them, all subterranean, Michael imagined. They rose three levels and exited into a bright, harshly white hall lined with conference rooms and offices. Michael was led into a room filled with security monitors, computers, and electronic equipment. He realized that but for the two guards that had flanked his cell, he hadn’t seen another soul.

  Raechen threw Michael down into a hard-backed wooden chair, quickly handcuffing him to the solid oak arms. A television, tuned to static snow, sat in front of him. Raechen hit a button and suddenly there were images of mayhem. Doctors, men and women in white coats and surgical scrubs, quivering, spasming as their bodies were riddled with bullets. Though the sound was off, Michael imagined their screams. There was a lone gunman, his gun flashing and jerking with every shot. Michael grew nauseous, his stomach turning over at the sight of these innocents’ slaughter. He didn’t need to see the assassin’s face, he knew who it was: Nikolai Fetisov.

  “That’s not me,” Michael said.

  Raechen stepped in front of Michael, his eyes cold, boring into him. The Russian tilted his head, and withdrew a knife and a lighter from his pocket. “You may not have pulled the trigger, no. But that doesn’t excuse you from guilt.”

  “You don’t understand,” Michael said.

  “I understand more than you know.” Raechen flipped another switch and the image on the television screen abruptly changed. Michael’s heart ran cold as he saw the exterior image of the Kremlin, the black ZiL sitting there, its engine idling, himself in the driver’s seat. Raechen paused the video. “I understand the value of life. And I am going to show you how well.”

  Raechen ignited the lighter and held it under the blade, waving the dancing flame against the metal until it glowed red. They stared at each other. Michael looked for a spark of mercy, a hint of compassion, but there was nothing there. This was a man without hope, someone whose love was replaced by vengeance.

  “You see, a man talks only when he can no longer take it, can no longer bear the torture,” Raechen said without emotion as the air around the blade began to dance from the heat. “But some men, and I suspect you are one of those men, can endure physical pain up to the point it kills them.”

  Raechen pocketed the lighter. He held the glowing knife in front of Michael’s eyes, gripped the hilt of the blade tightly, and jammed it down between Michael’s thighs, burying it in the wooden seat of the chair inches from Michael’s crotch. Michael didn’t flinch, his eyes never wavered or blinked, he just kept matching Raechen’s stare.

  Raechen pushed up Michael’s shirtsleeve and clamped his hand around Michael’s bare forearm with an iron grip. The smell of burning wood wafted up from the chair, smoky ringlets floating about. Raechen grabbed the hilt of the knife and pulled the red-hot blade out of the seat.

  They held each other’s stare. Michael fought to remain composed, hiding his fear. He knew what was about to happen and tried to detach himself from the moment.

  Raechen brought the knife inches from Michael’s naked arm. Michael could already feel the heat from the blade. Their eyes locked, neither of them flinching. And without fanfare, Raechen lay the blade on Michael’s forearm.

  Michael buried his mind, sending the pain to somewhere deep in his subconscious. He could hear his skin sizzle, smell the flesh burn. But he refused to give in to the agony, refused to give in to this man before him.

  And just as suddenly, Raechen pulled the knife away.

  “But torture need not always be physical,” Raechen said in his slight Russian accent. He put the knife on the desk, grabbed another chair, and rolled it directly in front of Michael. He pulled out two pairs of handcuffs and clipped them to the chair arms. He walked back over to the video player and hit PLAY. The image of the ZiL dissolved, replaced with an image that burned into Michael’s eyes, that filled him with pain and dread. It was far worse than the burning blade, even worse than if Raechen had thrust the knife into his heart. Michael saw an image of Susan, her hand touching his cheek as they sat in the black car just outside the Kremlin.

  “Most do not realize the greatest aspect of torture is the anticipation, the psychological dread.” Raechen indicated the chair across from Michael. “As she sits in front of you, staring into your eyes as I slice off each of her fingers, as you watch her scream as I remove her ear, I sense you will tell me where you have taken Julian Zivera’s mother and you’ll tell me where Zivera has hidden the map of the Kremlin underground.”

  The image continued to play. Like a voyeur, Michael watched as he and Susan stared at each other, her hand rising up to stroke his face. The two people before him looked passionately at each other, sharing an unspoken tender moment that culminated in a gentle kiss. Michael realized at that instant how strongly he felt for her, how strongly she felt for him; he saw it now, not only on his own face, but hers. And the out-of-body experience ended. The image abruptly looped back on itself to Susan’s hand on his cheek, the scene starting anew.

  The guilt flooded Michael; as much a
s Susan demanded to be involved in this entire ordeal, Michael was the one who allowed it. Against his better judgment, he allowed her to dive the Liberia and she was almost killed. Now because of Michael, they were going after her and he felt as if he had signed her death warrant. And to make matters worse, she was carrying the satchel concealing the golden box.

  “I want to know where Genevieve Zivera has been taken,” Raechen said slowly.

  “You know I was chasing her, you know she was supposed to be in that ambulance. I have no idea where she is. Somebody stole her from us.”

  “Who?” Raechen looked at Michael.

  Michael turned away. “Why do you want her?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Raechen leaned down, looking straight into Michael’s heart. “So I can kill her.”

  Michael stared back at his captor, with no doubt in his mind. There was a serene ruthlessness to the man, a calm that comes from only one of two things, complete confidence in one’s abilities or sheer insanity.

  “Zivera is a hypocritical fool who feigns pious altruism to hide a dark, power-mad heart, and I plan to make him suffer. Julian Zivera will suffer tenfold what my son feels. I will not rest until you have all been hunted down and dispatched.”

  “Why not just go for Julian? His mother is innocent, she shouldn’t have to suffer.”

  “Neither should my son.”

  The man’s words, his feelings, were so close to what Michael had felt when his wife was taken ill. The anger at God and the world, the pain of your heart withering along with the health of the one you love. Michael could almost sympathize with the man if he wasn’t voicing his intent to kill Genevieve.

  “Maybe you do not know where she has been taken, but maybe your woman will.” The tattooed Russian stepped to the video console, flipped another switch and every television, every computer monitor filled with the video image of Susan’s hand on his cheek. The screens lined the entire wall, filling his line of sight.