The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  Michael glared at the man as he silently berated himself for being blinded into a trap.

  “I told you to bring me the box and not try anything bold, yet here you are playing the hero. Mmmph. So much for Susan,” Julian said matter-of-factly.

  “Kill her and you get nothing,” Michael said, hoping his words were true. “Without her alive, you have no chance of getting the box.”

  Michael was violently pulled to his feet and spun around coming face-to-face with the milky white eye of Fetisov. The man’s face cracked into a smile as he stripped away Michael’s guns, tore the satchel from Michael’s shoulder, and dropped it on the conference table. The stocky Russian general opened it and reached inside. He withdrew two climbing wedges, four clips of ammo, and an orange medical kit. He flipped up the med kit’s lid to reveal bandages, cotton, and a syringe.

  Fetisov held up a bandage, laughing. “I don’t think this will help.”

  There was a murmur in the hall; a guard entered the room and whispered to Julian, who smiled and stepped into the hall.

  Michael looked at his supplies scattered about the table. He glared at Fetisov. He took in each of the eight guards who stood around him, their guns fixed upon him ready to shoot.

  Julian returned and held out his hand. “You were saying?”

  Michael stared in disbelief at the object before him, laying in Julian’s hands, as if it was inconsequential, as if it was merely a decorative piece found on a bookshelf. The object before him could mean only one thing: they had breached the jet. And as such, there was a very high probability that Stephen Kelley, the father he had just gotten back, the father he had never known, was dead. For Michael was staring at the box, in all of its golden glory, resting in the open hand of Julian.

  “It really pays to cast a wide net. And to know your enemy,” Julian said to Michael. “Ironic how our loyalist of friends have the ability to betray us the most.”

  Julian stepped to the side and Michael could finally see out the door. Standing there in the hallway was his father, his face impossible to read.

  “You never know who to trust, isn’t that right, Stephen?” Julian asked.

  But Kelley remained silent.

  Michael’s stomach fell as he looked at Stephen, unsure of the depths of this betrayal, but then it all became clear. There was someone on the plane that they couldn’t trust.

  And Martin stepped in the room. He looked at Michael and back to his father without a word.

  “Martin,” Julian said. “Why don’t you take your good friend Mr. Kelley down to the wine cellar and offer him a glass of 1982 Mouton Rothschild?”

  Martin broke out in an ear-to-ear smile as he took Stephen by the arm and led him out of the room.

  Chapter 62

  The single bullet tore through the guard’s head, exploding out the back into the medical building’s side door. The second guard required two shots. Simon had lined up his targets from the grassy berm across the street. He and Busch raced over, pulling the two bodies into the converted carriage house. But for the two guards, there was no one there. As they ran through the small lobby, they found the fire-stairs door wide open.

  “Keep an eye out,” Simon said. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  “What are you going to do?” Busch said as he clutched his rifle. “You’re not going to be able to carry her by yourself.”

  “I’m not going to carry her.” Simon looked at him. “I’m going to cremate her.”

  “Cremate her?” Busch said in shock.

  “It’s OK, it’s her request.” Simon headed down the stairs.

  “He’s going to blow us all up,” Busch said as he raised his rifled, peering out the door into the night.

  Simon emerged into a long hallway. The main lights were out, putting him on even greater guard. Simon checked his bag and pulled out five charges. He had picked them up while in Moscow; the Russian mobster who supplied Simon with his gun charged him five thousand U.S. dollars apiece. The magnesium, cordite, and sodium mixture burned at over two thousand five hundred degrees Fahrenheit and could waste the building in minutes, but the building wasn’t their target.

  Simon had made a promise to Genevieve that he was about to fulfill.

  As he moved down the hall, the air grew colder. The emergency lights provided the only illumination, casting long, heavy shadows in his path. The lab door was up ahead, wide open. And with each step the temperature dropped until Simon began to see his breath.

  As he approached the open door, Simon was greeted by a surreal sight. The summertime humidity that leaked from the open exterior doors had ringed the inner doorway in white frost where it had condensed, while fog-like wisps swirled about the floor with Simon’s every step.

  Simon stepped through the door. He looked around, keeping his back to the wall, moving sideways through the room. Spotlights shined down on the vacant operating table in the center of the room, where trays were prepped with sterilized tools. Everything looked ready for an autopsy.

  Simon rounded the table and kept his weapon raised high when his heart skipped a beat. Four dead bodies were spread about the floor, crimson pools of blood haloing their heads and steaming in the cold air. Simon checked the wound on the first doctor—his nameplate read Lloyd—the hole was small, through the man’s forehead just above his right eye.

  Simon stood and continued to look about the room, trying to figure out what was going on. Nothing in disarray, nothing out of place: every scalpel, bone saw, and needle laid out on trays and awaiting an autopsy that would never happen. These doctors were caught by surprise, killed within seconds of each other. None of them had time to react. No sign of defense taken by any of them: phones in cradles, cell phones on waistbands, no improvised weapons to ward off an attacker.

  Wasting no more time, Simon walked to the freezer, crossed himself, and opened the door. As he looked in the coffin-sized space, he squeezed the door handle until his fingers throbbed. The freezer was dark and empty. He looked back at the gurney.

  His mind began to spin.

  Genevieve’s body was gone.

  Chapter 63

  Michael walked down the long basement hallway of the science building, its corridors empty but for the four guards surrounding him and the bristle-headed Russian in the lead who carried the golden box. Fetisov had not said a word to Michael as they walked the half mile from the mansion; it was as if they were strangers unaware of each other’s presence. But that was far from the case. Given the chance, Michael would not hesitate to kill the man who hid behind a facade of Russian charm and humor, who kidnapped Susan, who betrayed them all.

  “Fetisov?” Michael shouted.

  The Russian turned to Michael, looking at him through his one good eye. He held up the golden box. “I told you I am a man who can get things.”

  Michael was stopped before a large office door. He watched as Fetisov and the box disappeared around the corner into the adjacent lab. The guard pulled out a key, unlocked the door, and forced Michael into a white box of a room, filled with caged animals. Their zoo-like chirps and grunts suddenly fell quiet as Michael entered.

  Susan turned from one of the cages, her cheeks tear-streaked, her eyes exhausted and bloodshot. She stood a moment as she saw Michael, her face a sea of emotions as she remained anchored in place. And finally she walked to him, wrapped her arms about his neck, and pulled him close.

  “I thought you were…” Susan’s voice cracked.

  “You, too. Did they hurt you?”

  She shook her head.

  As he embraced her, a momentary relief washed over him: she was still alive. They held each other close, taking comfort in the moment. It was the first time Michael had truly hugged someone since Mary died. And he felt a warmth, a feeling of comfort, a feeling of peace, a feeling that his heart could open again.

  Michael looked about the room. A single ceiling light shined down on the lone table. The variety of birds and animals had all fallen silent as if they sensed their impe
nding demise. On the far side of the room was a large wall of glass, a curtain drawn across it at one end. He finally looked back down at Susan.

  Susan lifted her head from his chest and looked up into his eyes. “Stephen?”

  “He’s alive, for the moment. He escaped but they grabbed him again.” Michael’s eyes were dire. “It was Martin.”

  Susan looked up at Michael, subtly shaking her head, her eyes filled with shame.

  “He betrayed us all,” Michael said. “You, me, Stephen.”

  “Do they have the real box?”

  Michael looked her in the eye, subtly smiling. “You opened the box.”

  “I guess you saw that coming.” Susan smiled, embarrassed, knowing that he foresaw her weakness. But she couldn’t stay angry; she was merely glad that he was still alive.

  “Susan, they have the box next door in the lab.” Michael released her and began walking about the room, feeling the cages, peering in at the timid animals, checking the light and the electrical outlets. He ran his hand along the glass, its edges recessed into the wall. “We need to get out of here before they open that box.”

  “I saw the lab, it’s pretty high-tech, they said it can contain any virus or disease.”

  “I’m not worried about that, I’m more worried about the explosion.”

  “Explosion? What explosion?”

  “The one that’s going to destroy this building.”

  “Michael, what did you do? What do they have next door?”

  “Five pounds of Semtex wrapped in gold, enough to level these two rooms.” Michael looked at his watch. “And in less than twenty minutes, they’re going to open it and set it off.”

  Susan looked at him. “How many boxes did you take out of Ivan’s Liberia?”

  “A couple of spares.”

  “Does anyone else know?”

  “Just you, me, and Dad,” Michael said as he continued to check for a way out.

  When Michael had boarded the plane back in Russia, he immediately went to Stephen Kelley’s rear stateroom and set up shop on the small desk. He removed the two golden boxes from his dive bag along with his small toolbox, a medical kit, his cell phone, and a can of orange paint.

  He opened Simon’s bag of tricks and began to rummage: incendiary bombs, ammo, Semtex, rifle pieces, two pistols. He quickly set to work. He dismantled the flip phone, removing the battery and hinge circuit. He opened up the gold decoy box and mounted the battery in the concave lid, running the wiring to the hinge where he affixed the flip switch. He tested the circuit, opening and closing the box to ensure a true electrical pathway and confirming the effectiveness of his spring-loaded pressure fuse. He packed as much Semtex into the well of the box as he could, inserted the two leads into the blasting cap, stuffed it into the malleable explosive, and closed the lid. He inserted a screwdriver into the simple lock, locked the box, and put it aside.

  Michael pulled over the true box, the Albero della Vita, the Tree of Life beautifully etched in its lid, the one whose nature was far more devastating than the contraption he had just created. He grabbed the white plastic medical box and opened it. It was filled with cotton, bandages, tape, syringes, sutures, ointment, and scissors. He emptied it and held it up, turning it over, examining it closely; it was slightly larger than the gold box but not large enough to contain it. Michael pulled his knife, removed the Red Cross stickers, and cut the box along its seams into six separate pieces. He set to work on the golden box, affixing the plastic along the sides and constructing a false top, one where the lid could be lifted to reveal a one-and-a-half-inch-deep holding space. Michael grabbed the can of orange paint he had used to mark his path in the Kremlin tunnel and sprayed the entire box orange.

  As the quick-drying paint set, he affixed the Red Cross stickers. He lifted the lid and covered the false-bottomed box with the cotton and white bandage, he placed in the syringes and other medical supplies, filling the one-and-a-half-inch space to the rim, virtually concealing the truth hidden in the false bottom below. Michael looked at his two creations, both deadly in their own right, unsure of how he would bring them into play. But now, as he sat with Susan in the room next to where the decoy would be opened, he was beginning to have his regrets.

  Chapter 64

  Dr. Habib took the golden box from Fetisov and dismissed him with a nod. He walked back into the lab and placed it on the small central pedestal of the containment room that sat thirty feet belowground. The advanced ventilation system was humming as the air handlers kicked in. Hal Jenkins entered the room, dressed in his white suit, his hair disheveled, his eyes still filled with sleep. “So, another wild-goose chase?”

  “They interrupted my dream of a fine wine on the beach of Marassia.”

  “You have got to get a life, fantasizing about wine is pathetic.” Jenkins pulled out the remote arms and powered them up. He flipped on the overhead lights, which bounced off the golden box that was suddenly lit up as if upon an altar awaiting worship. “That box looks just like the last one.”

  “Well, if it’s like the last one, I’ll be back in bed in twenty minutes,” Habib said as he secured the box down. “Where’s Lloyd?”

  “Don’t know. But I’m not waiting on his arrogant ass.”

  “Good morning, gentlemen.” Julian’s voice came over the speakers.

  Jenkins slid his hands into the control gloves and stretched out his arms. The mechanical arms on the other side of the glass responded in kind. He was like an athlete getting ready for the race. He twisted his neck from side to side, to and fro, reaching out his arms, stretching them wide, the mechanical appendages responding in an exact mimic of his movements.

  “We’re going to be about fifteen minutes before we get everything powered up down here,” Habib said to the omniscient voice.

  “Call me when you’re ready.” Julian’s voice echoed before clicking off.

  Habib flipped on the computers, sensors, and analyzers; he started the digital recorders and adjusted the focus on each of the cameras. He took an air reading as a baseline and waited for the computer to respond.

  Jenkins’s left mechanical hand reached out and picked up the screwdriver that lay on the counter; he spun it in his robot-like hand, moving it back and forth toward the box’s lock. He twisted it back and forth like a safecracker on a mission. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

  Chapter 65

  How many years, Martin?” Stephen said as they walked in the enormous wine cellar, past the polished vats, past the vast collection of wines whose value was beyond compare.

  “Standing in your shadow?” Martin said, holding the gun high.

  “Shadow?” There was anguish in Stephen’s voice despite the fact that his friend held a gun to his back. “You were the one person who stood by my side since I started the firm.”

  “That’s right, since we started your firm.”

  They continued walking; an uncomfortable silence surrounded them.

  “You’ve been with me through everything,” Stephen blurted out in confusion. “You helped carry Peter’s coffin, for Christ’s sake. The words you spoke at his funeral about us, about family and loyalty, was that all bullshit?” Stephen abruptly stopped and spun around. “Tell me you didn’t buy into this guy’s absurd religion?”

  Martin laughed as he flicked the gun at Stephen, motioning him to walk. “Hardly. I checked them out a few years ago, thought they were a joke but they never stopped soliciting me. I received an e-mail from God’s Truth; it showed a picture of Genevieve Zivera, the woman who had visited you, said it was Julian’s sick, missing mother. All I did was make the call. I didn’t ask for anything in return. I thought I was doing the right thing.” Martin paused as they continued on. “Then they dangled an offer. The immediate-retirement kind of offer. Take our money and retire or we will retire you. Not much of a choice. But the more I thought about it…Everyone works for you, Stephen, making you rich; it was time I made my own shadow.”

  “But Susan, you sold her ou
t?”

  “Please, she’s nothing more than a spoiled child.” Martin kept two feet back, gun in hand as he guided Stephen to the stairs at the far end of the wine cellar. They walked down into darkness, arriving at the earthen room that stood in sharp contrast to everything upstairs. It took a moment for Stephen’s eyes to adjust before he realized where they were. The tombs spread out along the wall, lit by a string of overhead lights. The smell of the crypt was ancient, sour, and moldy. But for the lights, it was as if they had walked back in time. They walked past the tombs of Charlotte and Yves Trepaunt, Dr. Robert Tanner, their vintage standing in sharp contrast to the centuries-old graves in this darkened underworld. They finally came to a stop in front of an opened tomb.

  Stephen was doing everything in his power not to lash out at the man he had thought was his closest friend. “When you opened my safe and you took the box, did you take my gun? Is that my gun?”

  Martin answered by jamming it in his back. “Never felt it from that point of view, did you?”

  “That’s my favorite gun, Martin.”

  “I’ll be sure to see that you are buried with it. My last act in tribute to you.”

  “I get a son back.” Stephen turned around and stared Martin in the eye. “And you send him to his death?”

  “Don’t worry, you won’t be separated long.”

  Stephen hit him hard, right in the face. And it felt good, just like when he was young, unloading on someone in the ring. He hit the fifty-five-year-old man with all of his anger, all of his rage, at being kidnapped, at losing Michael. Martin tumbled back but he never lost his frame of mind. He rapid-fired the pistol, five shots in mere seconds. At close range. The report echoing about, deafening him. But Stephen kept coming.