The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  “I could fly if I had to.”

  “Where is what?” Susan asked. “What is he talking about?”

  Stephen turned to Susan as the five of them charged off toward Julian’s mansion.

  “The real box, the Tree of Life, is in the mansion.”

  Chapter 67

  Julian stared at the medical lab’s image on his computer’s monitor. The static snow had been preceded by a bright orange flash. Moments later the rumbling thunder of the explosion wafted up to the mansion. He sat there for all of three seconds before erupting out of the chair, his anger overtaking his emotions as he realized he had been tricked. He picked up the phone and called down to the medical facility. But the phone just rang. There was no doubt that something was wrong there also. He slammed down the phone. Everything was falling apart. He thought himself so wise luring Michael into a trap, only to be fooled by the thief, denied his goal, denied his success and with it his very life. He stared up at the portrait of his mother and raged.

  Julian tried to regain his composure, his thoughts, his frame of mind. Michael had stolen the true box from under the Kremlin, there was no doubt about that. Martin had confirmed it. But Michael had engaged in a shell game, a game of three-card monte, moving the box about, leading everyone astray from its true location. A location that was probably more obvious than anyone realized, probably sitting somewhere in plain sight.

  Michael was far smarter than Julian had estimated him to be; while he tricked Susan and even Martin with false boxes, Michael had to still possess the true one, and since he seemed to trust no one—not even the security of an airplane safe—he would never let it go far from his person.

  Julian cleared his thoughts, willing himself to think what he would do if he was in Michael’s position. He calmed himself and thought of the box, of what it looked like, of its shape, its texture, of the best place for it to be hidden.

  It was a moment before the clarity hit him. And without another thought, Julian ran from his library and raced up the stairs to the third floor. He charged down the hall to the conference room, burst in, stared at the table, and smiled. And as his smile grew ear to ear, he finally erupted in laughter at the cleverness of it all. Of the way the mind has a tendency to overcomplicate things, to look for solutions that were far more complex than necessary.

  Julian picked up Michael’s medical kit and turned it about in his hand. He reverently walked out of the room back down to his library and laid it on his desk. He absentmindedly sat down, lifted up the lid, and stared at the medical supplies. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered as he scooped out the gauze, cotton, and bandages in the small recess to reveal a false bottom.

  He pulled a letter opener from his desk drawer and pried off the false plastic top and sides to reveal the golden box. Though mottled with orange, its design was clear; there was no doubt that he was looking at the Albero della Vita, the Tree of Life etched in its lid.

  He sat back in his desk chair, picked up his phone, and quickly dialed the intercom to every phone line. “I need every available hand armed and up here now. I want everyone, from cooks to doctors, whoever can be found, to take up defensive positions within the house. Guard every door, every window, from the inside.”

  Julian absentmindedly laid the phone in its cradle as he continued to stare at the box. His breathing became rapid as he realized he was on the precipice of saving his own life. The box before him held the answer to life, he could feel it. It was the box in the painting that had hung across from his bed. It was a myth, a fable that was lost to the ages, now found and before him this very moment.

  Though the lab was destroyed, Julian knew it could be rebuilt. It wouldn’t take long; the specs, the design were complete. One month, tops. He would spare no expense on building the facility to penetrate the mystery before him.

  Julian looked at the lock…and then he looked at the lock again. It was different than the others, not a simple slot. It was circular, overlaid with a perfect X. It looked familiar but he couldn’t place it.

  Julian was lost in the moment when the room flooded with guards, fifteen strong, their guns raised, pointing directly at him. He smiled briefly before realizing they did not share his humor. Julian was suddenly taken aback; fear ran through his veins before it was replaced with anger. “What the hell are you doing?” he screamed.

  But there was no answer. Each of the guards stood there, their rifles to their shoulders, their fingers on the triggers, their lips sealed as they continued to aim, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

  Julian stared at each of them, his eyes moving down the line of guards, uncomprehending their motive. But then he felt it—it was a presence, silent yet close—and realized the guards were not aiming at him. He slowly looked back to see a tall man, his eyes filled with wrath, as he stood there with two pistols an inch from his head.

  And the air rushed from Julian’s lungs. He was in the middle of a Mexican standoff and he was the target. He never heard the man enter, he never heard a sound. The man stood with his back to the wall, his twin guns trained on him; Julian gripped the box trying to steady his mind, caught between an assassin and fifteen trigger-happy guards.

  “Know this.” The voice was Russian, only inches from his ear. “When they shoot me, I will pull both triggers. You have no chance of surviving.”

  “Reachen?” Julian said as the realization hit him.

  “Good, you will be able to tell the Devil who delivered you to him.”

  Julian sat there, the box still in his hands, its gilded case shining under his eyes. He looked down at it, wondering what was truly within its walls. Could its contents have saved him? It was an answer he knew now would be forever denied him. He was so close to his goal.

  “My son is dead,” Raechen whispered. “This false hope started with you and it is going to end with you.”

  Julian had nowhere to go as the sweat began to run up his spine and down his neck. He tried to control his hands but they wouldn’t stop shaking. He hadn’t known fear like this since that day on the playground. Since childhood cruelty had caused an attack and he was enveloped in darkness, the air torn from his lungs. The memory was as clear as it had ever been; he had died that day as the other children looked on. He was terrified of the void, of the nothingness that lay before him, until he was abruptly pulled back to consciousness. Now, with his diagnosis, he would once again be faced with that void. And so he searched out life, he had stopped at nothing to find the key to terrestrial eternity, he chased myths and legends, all of them the insane quest of a madman. All except one, and it lay in the box before him now.

  And as he felt the two guns press against either side of his skull, Julian was overcome with desperation, his mind seeking a solution, an answer to how he could overcome this deadliest of situations, this extreme instant that was pulling him back from the moment of his greatest triumph.

  And then he remembered where he had seen the lock on the box before him. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his mother’s cross necklace. He looked at it: it wasn’t a cross at all. It was a sword. She had always worn it about her neck, it had been there since his earliest childhood memory. He had torn it violently from her neck not more than two hours earlier. And as he examined it, he noted the blade: its tip was a perfect match to the lock on the box. For all these years she had carried it, he thought it to be her reverential expression of her faith. But only those who held the box would realize that it was, in fact, a key. The key to unlock the mystery before him.

  “You have ten seconds to make your peace with God,” Raechen said.

  Julian held the miniature sword tightly, squeezing it as if it would somehow deliver him from this horror. For there was no way out. He felt the cold metal of the gun barrels pressing his skull. He stared out at his contingent of guards, their rifles pointing at Raechen, all of which was a useless gesture, one that could not prevent the inevitability of his certain death.

  The pain of unanswered questions welled up inside
him. He would die without knowing the true contents of the box, of its mysteries, hidden away by Ivan the Terrible, hidden away by his European ancestors before him, lost from the collective consciousness of man. Julian would be denied the answers he had sought. Was it truly eternal life as the legend had spoken, was it death as so many had warned? Would God be revealed, would his whisper be heard, or would the box release death, in its worst, most painful of forms?

  And then, without thinking, as if his body was detached from his mind, Julian inserted the key in the box. It was a moment. He had no choice; he needed to sate his curiosity, he needed for the box to reveal its truth to him. And if it held death, he was going to die anyway, and if that was so, he was going to take the life of the assassin and as many others with him as he could.

  He turned the key. The lock clicked. Julian Zivera lifted the lid of the Tree of Life.

  Chapter 68

  Michael sprinted alongside the long driveway toward the mansion. The cars and limos were abandoned, no roving patrols, nobody posted at the front of the enormous home. It was as if everyone simply had vanished, gone for the night, as if all was right with the world and there was no longer a need to protect Julian.

  “Where’d everybody go?” Busch asked as he caught up to Michael. Susan and Stephen came to a halt next to them with Simon bringing up the rear. They stood at the edge of the expansive garden, staring at the former royal home, the former monastery that was redesigned and lit to cry to the world of the power of the man who resided within. But for this man of such wealth and command, his protection had disappeared. Michael spun about looking for someone, anyone, but the compound was deserted. And Simon raised his gun higher.

  “Something is very wrong,” Michael said.

  And the ground erupted around them. Gunfire poured from every window, every doorway, all fixed on them. The dark of the night was suddenly lit by the barrel flame of forty guns, the cacophony of sound shredding their ears, stirring up confusion. Without thought they all reacted, racing for cover, diving behind trees and rocks, cars and trucks.

  Simon took up position behind a stand of trees. Twenty yards away, Susan and Stephen lay behind a rock; Susan examined Stephen’s shoulder, applying pressure to the growing wound. The run up the hill had only worked to increase his blood flow, to exacerbate his injury. Susan tore Stephen’s sleeve from his bloodied arm and created a makeshift bandage, using his belt to apply pressure, to wrap and affix the temporary covering to his wound, immobilizing his shoulder.

  The gunfire continued to fall about them. Simon saw Michael cutting between the trees heading for him and laid down a suppressing fire, hoping to force their attackers to a defensive position.

  Michael made it behind a large pine, taking a seat, catching his breath. He stole a quick glance around the base of the tree, catching a glimpse of the mansion’s entrance. They were more than fifty yards away; there was no question, every window had a sniper, had a shooter begging for one of them to come out in the open. There was no way in and there was no doubt what they were protecting. Michael cursed himself for letting the box get away from him.

  “We have to get them out of here,” Simon called to Michael as he nodded toward Susan and Stephen.

  “No way,” Stephen shouted over the gunfire. “I’m not some kid being sent home from the fight.”

  “Not to be cold,” Simon said, “but I can’t afford a woman and an injured man slowing us down. We could get killed trying to watch out for you.”

  Stephen said nothing as he stared at Simon, the realization hitting him as if it were a judge’s ruling. He nodded.

  Michael looked toward the far east side of the mansion, two hundred yards off, and noted the helicopter landing pad, a large white copter, its quiet blades sagging, dormant under the nighttime skies. The near side of the landing pad was surrounded by a tall solid metal wall, long bracing arms extending back into the ground, a barrier against the helicopter’s prop wash and a perfect cover point to not only protect Stephen and Susan from the firing line, but keep them safe and hidden.

  Simon followed Michael’s line of sight and immediately picked up on the idea. “Go, I’ve got you covered.”

  Without a word, Michael looked at Stephen and Susan and they all took off for the steel wall, staying in the shadows, staying within the line of trees. Simon laid down a suppressing fire, fanning his gun at the windows in hopes of catching some guards unaware.

  The trio charged through the trees as the bark exploded around them. Michael glanced over at Stephen who, despite his shoulder wound, did not falter, he fought through the pain, slowed not one step by his injuries.

  They slid in behind the large structure, surprised by its size: twenty feet high, fifty yards long, made of a heavy-gauge steel. It would prove the perfect cover point for both Stephen and Susan. Michael crouched down and looked at Stephen’s shoulder, checking Susan’s work. She had immobilized his arm against his body to prevent the wound from tearing open further. The cloth from Stephen’s shirt was already soaked through with blood. They would have to get him to a hospital soon.

  “Take this,” Michael said to Susan as he slammed a nine-millimeter pistol into the palm of her hand. “I don’t care who it is, anyone comes near you kill him, do not hesitate, kill them, cause they’ll kill you as soon as they get the chance.”

  “Give me the gun, Susan,” Stephen said with the utmost seriousness.

  “No, you’re right-handed and wounded. I trust her, you do the same,” Michael shot back. He nodded to them and ran back toward Simon.

  And as he ran, looking at the mansion, the unending barrage of bullets, at Simon and Busch intermittently firing back, his heart filled with dread. There was nowhere to go, and retreat was not an option. Julian had the box and was ensconced within a ring of gunfire.

  No matter what they did, Michael feared it was too late.

  Chapter 69

  The small golden box lay open in Julian’s lap; he held his breath as he peered inside. The threat of Raechen’s guns trained on his head was nothing more than an afterthought as Julian looked into the box that had possessed him for so many years.

  The interior was impossibly dark; though it was only four inches deep, it appeared to have no bottom. Julian squinted as the small golden case appeared to shimmer and move, subtly at first. He looked up and about the room; the lights seemed to dim, their rays moving toward him, toward the box, where they vanished. And conversely, the darkness seemed to pour from the box, flowing outward, a black, low-lying fog, seeping out and over the rim, down his legs and along the floor. It spread out in its inky way, enveloping the rug, the chairs, covering the room in an unreal darkness, robbing the world of light.

  And it flowed behind him toward the Russian assassin who stood with his two pistols aimed at Julian.

  Raechen stared at the box, frozen in place. Julian watched as a shadow moved about the assassin’s feet and up over his legs, his chest, over his shoulders, and finally his head. And Raechen began to tremble, deep rasps of breath struggled up and out his throat as he began to gasp. And his eyes welled up with crimson tears of blood; they poured down his face, sharply contrasting the blackness that lay upon him. And then the darkness flowed off, moving away of its own free will, like an errant shadow with a will of its own.

  The guards stood riveted, watching the impossible sight before them; the blackness flowed outward as Raechen collapsed dead next to Julian. And then, without warning, the pool expanded, moving at an increasing speed; the guards turned to run but it was useless as the shadows engulfed them, pulling them to the ground, covering their bodies.

  Julian sat paralyzed, his brain frozen as he watched the carnage before him, but throughout all of the screaming, all of the terror, he felt nothing; this shadowlike plague seemed to pass him by as if he were marked in lamb’s blood.

  And the blackness flowed out of the room under the doorways and out into the hall. Julian could hear the screams, the bodies falling. The horror echoed through
the mansion, terrifying him.

  Then he saw it, in the bottom of the box; it was dim but its glow began to brighten. He reached in and pulled it out. It was light, golden and pure. It had no substance, no texture or matter, it was simply a golden light that filled him with warmth, filled him with hope, removing the pain from his heart and his mind.

  And when he looked up she was there. Standing before him, standing among the fallen bodies. She silently walked to him, staring down upon him in judgment. She took the box from his hands and gently closed the lid. Genevieve stood there, a radiance flowing from her body as she looked at her son.

  Julian remained dumbstruck, staring uncomprehending at his mother before him. He tried to speak but, like in a dream, he was suddenly mute, his lips moving without effect. He shuddered, more terrified of her than the death around him.

  Genevieve smiled, warm and caring, and it terrified him even more…for he had killed her, he had seen her dead mere hours ago.

  Julian looked about the room at the scattered lifeless bodies, unsure why he was not among them. His brittle mind was in a tailspin. He never questioned the fragility of his own psyche, knowing that genius and insanity were separated by a mere hairsbreadth, but he couldn’t grasp what stood before him. He was paralyzed in fear, his heart racing, his mind numb with confusion.

  “Julian.” Genevieve’s lips were unmoving, though her soft voice was clear in his head.

  “What are you?” Julian quivered, his breathing labored with fear. “A cherub; tasked with guarding the secret of life?” Julian closed his eyes, trying to gather his strength. And then he exploded. “What are you?”

  Genevieve looked down upon him with disappointed eyes. “You read too many books,” her whispers echoed in his head. “Those are stories, written by men who bore no witness to the mysteries that have occurred through time. Some facts are fables and, as you know, some fables are facts, but you ignore their intention, you ignore their warning, forgetting their purpose of guidance, of metaphor.”