The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  “I need a shower to clear my head, then we’ll talk.”

  “Can you give me an approximation?”

  “Fifty plus.” And he disappeared through the door to the stateroom, closing it tight behind him.

  Michael looked at Simon for a reaction.

  “Too many,” Simon said, shaking his head.

  “We don’t even know where they’re holding Susan,” Busch said. “I hate to always be the pessimist—”

  “Then don’t,” Michael cut him off. He couldn’t afford to have the notion of failure running through his mind.

  Simon unzipped his bag and pulled out his cache of weapons. Rifles, pistols, Semtex, incendiary bombs. Spreading them out on the table, he picked up and began breaking down a rifle, checking its barrel, the firing pin, the chamber.

  Busch pulled his gun, the one he used underneath the Kremlin, the one that Fetisov gave him. He ejected the clip full of blanks and threw it, along with two cartridges, into a small wastebasket next to the table.

  Simon looked at him. “What are you doing? We’re going to need everything we can get our hands on.”

  “Those bullets will do nothing but get you killed. They’re all blanks.”

  “You never know.” Michael plucked them from the garbage and placed them on the table. Michael spread the compound grounds map out and examined each of the buildings. They were not elaborately detailed, but the chart did provide him with the general configuration and location of each structure. “Kelley said he was held in the mansion. I think, better than even money, that that is where Susan is.”

  “How can we be sure?” Busch asked.

  “We can’t. But I’ll bet if we check their security feeds…”

  “Are you forgetting the fifty guards?”

  “Hey.” Michael held up his hands. “I’m not. We’re going to need a distraction, though.” Michael looked up from the map.

  “Can we cut their power?” Busch asked.

  “I’m sure they have backup generators for the labs and houses,” Michael said as he looked at Simon. “Any thoughts on distractions?”

  “I have that covered. If we can check the security feeds, I may be able to find Genevieve at the same time,” Simon said as he turned to Busch. “But I’ll need some help.”

  “You and me?” Busch asked. “Working together? Twist my arm.”

  “What are you going to do?” Michael asked Simon with a bit of hesitancy.

  “I’ll find Genevieve. And I’ll make a hell of a lot of noise in the process.”

  “And what about Julian?” Busch asked.

  “We leave him for another day,” Michael said.

  Simon stared at Michael. “If I get the opportunity, I’m going to take it,” Simon said.

  “Simon,” Michael said. “We’re here to get Susan and if we can, Genevieve.”

  “I know.” Simon nodded. “Only if the opportunity presents itself.”

  And that scared Michael; he knew Simon was the type to make an opportunity instead of wait for one. He feared that the attempt to enter Julian’s compound would prove far more dangerous, complicated, and bloody than any of them expected. But it was the determination in Simon’s eyes that stoked Michael’s suspicion. Simon was determined to save Genevieve, but there was something more. Simon had another agenda.

  Michael closed the cockpit door. “You didn’t tell me everything.”

  Simon stared at Michael as they stood alone by the flight controls.

  “I can’t afford surprises, Simon. You know that. What are you hiding?”

  Simon looked at Michael, you could see he was building up to something. Until finally…“You know the story of my parents: how my father kidnapped, raped, and tortured my mother then went into hiding,” Simon summarized a story that he had told Michael in the past. “But he couldn’t hide forever; I never regretted killing him or the three years I spent in jail.

  “He carved and burned horrible, evil symbols in her skin, a woman that he loved. So, when she reverted to wearing her old nun’s cassock and habit, I had thought it was to cover up the heinous markings. What I didn’t know was that she was really hiding her pregnancy from the rape. I was in prison at the time and never learned about the child. In fact, I knew none of this until four months ago.

  “When my mother gave birth, she knew she couldn’t care for the boy; she was mentally unstable and didn’t want anyone to know what had happened. So she turned to her friend Genevieve Zivera, the woman whose small orphanage could provide the caring, loving home she never would be able to.

  “But my mother extracted a promise from Genevieve in exchange for the child. Genevieve had to name him and raise him as her own, not as an orphan but as her flesh and blood. My mother couldn’t bear the thought of a child knowing of such a terrifying lineage: an insane father and a scarred, unfit mother on the verge of a mental collapse.” Simon paused. “Through the years, Genevieve never said a word, never once alluding to her subterfuge. And I would see this boy on occasion when I would visit Genevieve or she would bring him to the Vatican. I never thought much of him. He was quiet, his eyes always devoid of emotion. I never knew him well enough to see how troubled he truly was…or how familiar his appearance had been. Genevieve finally broke her promise to my mother; it troubled her to reveal the truth, not out of her disloyalty to my mother, but out of fear of how it would affect me, of what I might do learning the reality of the boy’s lineage.

  “For here was a man who literally killed his family, his wife and father-in-law, to take over their ministry, who exploited God for his sheer greed, who preached but hypocritically contradicted his every sermon.” Simon paused a moment, looking at Michael, his eyes fixed on him, waiting on his every word as he fell to a whisper. “Julian Zivera is the most heinous of men, the purest reflection of my insane father…and he is my brother.”

  Michael stared at Simon, not knowing what to say.

  “This doesn’t go any further than us,” Simon said.

  “You have to promise me that we get Susan and Genevieve out first.”

  Simon nodded. “Of course.” The cabin fell silent, the moment dragging on. The two stared at each other until finally Simon continued. “And then I’m going to kill Julian.”

  Michael sat silently with Busch, Simon, and Martin. He couldn’t shake the shock of what Simon had told him. He tried to keep his focus and stared at the gold box in the center of the conference table, a box whose worth was in constant flux but whose danger was not in question.

  “Gentlemen, could you please excuse us?” Kelley said in a dismissive tone as he emerged from his bedroom at the back of the plane, vigorously towel-drying his wet hair. He had changed out of the security guard outfit and wore a pair of tan slacks and a white oxford shirt. With the changing of his clothes, so changed his personality. He once again became a commanding presence, the one Michael met on a doorstep in Boston. The three exited the plane. Martin looked back a brief moment at Kelley before finally shutting the door.

  Kelley took a seat at the conference table, directly across from Michael. But for the other day in Boston, when they were interrupted, it was the first time as father and son that they had been alone since Michael was born. As Michael studied his face, he could actually see the resemblance. His father possessed the same eyes; strong, cutting a window to a very deep soul. They looked at each other, assessing, thinking, before Kelley finally boiled over. “Jesus Christ. What the hell is going on?”

  Michael was taken aback by the sudden outburst.

  “I want all of the particulars, every one of them.”

  Michael forced himself to remain calm, trying not to lash back at Kelley, hoping he wasn’t about to play Monday-morning quarterback. Michael ran through the details, bringing his father up to speed on the Albero della Vita, Genevieve, Russia, and the reason he possessed the skill set for such tasks. Where he may have felt shame at telling his adoptive father, Alec St. Pierre, the man who raised him, of his exploits and sublegal career, Mich
ael had no problem telling the man before him. While this was his true father, there was no real connection yet but for a closet full of pictures. There was no history or reason to feel shame, though Michael hated the fact that this was only their second conversation.

  “This is way beyond my level of faith,” Kelley said. “I’m a lapsed Catholic who has trouble remembering holy days. Now you are asking me to believe in—”

  “I’m not asking you to believe anything,” Michael said as he ran his hands over the box. “But I will tell you what I believe. This thing”—Michael lifted up the box—“contains death. From everything I have been told, from everything I have seen, I have no doubt that if this box is opened, people will die. Tens of thousands of people, probably more.”

  “And if we don’t hand it over, Susan will die.” Kelley sat there, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed as he contemplated what Michael said, absorbing his words before jumping on the attack again. “How could you bring her, put her in such danger? Susan should never have gone with you to Moscow.”

  “What?” Michael said defensively, leaning in to meet his father’s scornful gaze.

  “You put her in harm’s way. She’s sitting in the middle of that madman’s compound waiting to die because of you.”

  “Don’t lay that on me.” Michael rocketed out of his chair and stalked across the jet. “I just spent the last week trying to get this box so I could save you. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’s impossible. I did everything short of tying her up. She’s stubborn as hell.”

  Kelley sat there staring at Michael. “I know.”

  Michael finally exhaled and stood there waiting to hop on the defensive again.

  “Makes her a good attorney, though.” Kelley smiled, and his whole mood seemed to shift. He stood and walked over to the bar. This time, he crouched down and opened the lower cabinet. He fiddled with something a moment before finally standing to reveal a medium-sized safe, its door wide open. It was half full of cash, pistols, and documents. He turned and looked at Michael, who immediately understood.

  Michael picked the box up off the table, walked over, and placed it in the safe.

  Kelley crouched down, closed the door and spun the combination lock. “So, how are we going to rescue Susan?”

  Michael nodded at Kelley, a respectful gesture. He grabbed the map of the compound and smoothed it out over the table, and then flipped it over to its blank side. “I’m going to need you to sketch out the interior of the mansion. Think you can remember the layout?”

  Kelley nodded, pulled out a pen, and began drawing. It was a moment before he turned to Michael. “After I denied you as a son, you still came for me.”

  “Yeah,” Michael said softly. “Susan had something to do with it.”

  “Of course.” They both knew that it wasn’t that simple.

  “Listen, when I gave you up…” Kelley continued sketching, his words coming hard. “After your mother died…”

  “It’s OK.” Michael smiled. “You did the right thing. I couldn’t have asked for better parents than the St. Pierres…no offense.”

  “None taken.” Kelley looked at Michael, a sense of pride in the man before him. “They did a good job.” Kelley continued drawing, falling into silence before looking up again. “You’re probably wondering about my safe room, with all those pictures, wondering why I never tried to contact you.”

  “I’m fine.” Michael smiled, seeing the man’s discomfort in revealing his emotions. “You don’t need to say a thing. But I do have one question. My mother…”

  Kelley smiled. “She was young and scared. She was beautiful and tough.” Kelley’s eyes became unfocused. “She was…smart, she was my best friend. God, if we only knew when the best moments of our lives were happening so we would pay closer attention…”

  Michael said nothing; he knew exactly what his father was feeling.

  “We were terrified when we found out she was pregnant. But she wanted you more than anything. We had no idea what we would do, how we would make things work, but somehow, we thought, we would find a way. And after all the fear, after all the pain, she held you in her arms. The last thing she saw gave her the greatest joy she ever knew. I had never seen her so…happy as in that moment.” Kelley looked up at his son. “It was you.”

  Michael looked on silently. He knew the pain of losing the one you love, of losing the one who gave you a reason to live, who gave you a reason to find joy in the world, who gave you hope every morning when you awakened. He was sitting across from a man who had experienced such a loss three heartbreaking times, yet still found a way to go on despite being alone.

  “And,” Kelley said, shaking off his memories, “she was a huge Red Sox fan.”

  “Oh, you’re killing me.” Michael groaned. “She sounded perfect until you said that.”

  “Don’t even say it.”

  Michael nodded his head.

  “How could you possibly root for them, all they do is steal our best players? You’re cheering a bunch of ex–Red Sox.”

  “Don’t go there. Red Sox win one championship and you think you’re America’s team. When you have won twenty-six,” Michael said, tilting his head, “call me.”

  “How can you be a Yankee fan?”

  “You have got to be kidding me.” Michael laughed. “Here I thought things were going so well. We’re not going to see eye to eye on anything.”

  “Who do you like in football?” Kelley asked, getting serious.

  “Die-hard Giants fan, season-ticket holder,” Michael said.

  “Patriots,” Kelley shot back. “How about basketball?”

  “Knicks.” Michael threw up his hands. “You’re obviously a Celtics fan. That’s OK though, they both suck.”

  “Hockey,” Kelley continued. “My Bruins are in a rebuilding year.”

  “Yeah, for the last decade.”

  “That’s low coming from a Ranger fan.”

  “Ah…Got you on this one. Red Wings. Nothing beats a game at Joe Louis Arena.”

  “Red Wings?!?! How the hell can you live in New York and be a Red Wings fan?”

  “Easy…the same way I watch Manchester United. It’s called a satellite dish.” Michael paused. “Did you play anything growing up?”

  “Everything,” Kelley answered. “Baseball, football, basketball, I boxed.”

  “A boxer?” Michael smirked.

  “Why, is that so hard to believe? If you’re a Southie you learned to fight or die.”

  “How about your son, what did he play?” Michael asked.

  Kelley grew silent, looking away, the moment over.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No, it’s OK. He was more of an intellectual type. You would have liked him, though.” Kelley smiled, looking away. “You would have liked him a lot, you would have made good brothers.” Kelley caught himself and laughed. “Even though you were on opposite sides of the law. And I’m so sorry about your wife.”

  “It’s OK, all the money in the world couldn’t have saved her. Can we stop the memorials, though? It’s kind of killing us both.”

  Kelley smiled as he pushed the finished sketch over to Michael. It showed four stories, with some of the rooms detailed. “I wasn’t everywhere, but this is what I remember.”

  Michael studied it, knowing that somewhere inside was Susan, terrified, wondering if anyone would be coming for her.

  “Everything else aside, I’m pretty lucky,” Kelley said, a sense of optimism in his voice. “I seem to have found a son I lost. And I don’t have to deal with the teenage years again. How about that?”

  Kelley put out his hand. Michael took it and they shook warmly. “Listen, on the whole dad thing…” Michael said uncomfortably.

  “Just call me Stephen.”

  Michael smiled. It was a moment as father and son acknowledged one another. Finally, Michael reached in his pocket and handed Stephen a small three-cigar tin.

  “What’s this for, a little celebratory smoke?”
Stephen asked.

  “For later. I need to talk to you about how we are going to get Susan.”

  Stephen nodded and tucked the small rectangular cigar case in his back pocket. “For later, when there is cause for celebration.”

  Chapter 56

  Julian looked into his mother’s eyes; they were darker than he remembered. Where he used to be able to read her heart, he saw nothing now but mystery.

  “I’m so glad you’re back,” Julian said truthfully.

  But Genevieve just looked at her son, silently staring into his eyes.

  “I was worried I’d never see you again.”

  Genevieve just continued to stare.

  “I need your help.” Julian turned and walked around the lab. “You know what is truly in the box, and I believe you know how to open it.”

  He finally turned and looked back at the gurney where Genevieve lay, her arms and legs strapped down, a wide strap across her chest, her only escape being to close her eyes, but they remained defiantly open.

  They were in a medical lab designed by Vladimir Skovokov, built for working on the dead, the cadavers that were so much a part of his research. The temperature hovered around thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit, to help preserve his subjects. Julian dialed the temperature down. “Nice and chilly in here. Does it remind you of your mountain retreat in the Italian Dolomites? Where you died?” Julian didn’t expect her to answer.

  “I don’t know how, but you and that box are linked. And when it gets here, you are going to tell me how to open it.”

  Genevieve’s breathing slowed as she continued to defiantly stare at her son.

  “I’ll figure out how to open it eventually. I was just hoping maybe you would save me some time.”

  Julian picked up a syringe and slipped the needle into a small medicine bottle, pulling back the plunger, filling the barrel to its max. “Sodium Amytal, sodium Pentothal, all of those so-called truth serums, all they really do is make you sleepy.” He walked back over to where she lay on the gurney, leaned over her, and ran his free hand through her hair. “And if you don’t want to tell me the truth, they won’t help me to pry it from your lips. But pain…”