The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  And without warning, a black figure reached up out of the sea, grabbing him about the legs and pulling him into the dark water. He held his breath as he went under but despite his best efforts, the water still rushed into his lungs; there was nothing he could do about the knife wound across his throat.

  Simon climbed up into the starboard opening, pulled his waterproof bag aboard, withdrew his guns, and strapped them to his body. He reached back in the bag and pulled out a large gray box. He affixed the magnetic backing to the hull of the ship in the rear corner of the room and threw a switch. The frequency scrambler immediately sent an undetectable signal into the air, scrambling any and all radio transmissions, rendering the ship silent and deaf to the outside world.

  After heading down into the galley of the fishing boat, he and Busch had come up through the forward starboard side hatch and slipped over the side into the water. They had strapped on dive gear, swam down, and remained beneath the safety of God’s Whisper as the fishing boat was blown to pieces.

  Simon stood up and looked around the large open room; he walked to the corner and stared up at the twenty-foot tender that hung on the ceiling rail. It was a white cruiser with a large mercury outboard, built for shepherding passengers to and from shore. Simon reached up and pulled the release lever and watched as the boat glided along the overhead track to the starboard opening. As it reached the open door, the track swung out into the night and angled down, gently laying the boat into the nighttime water. Simon released it from its overhead mooring and retracted the guide track. He gave the boat a gentle push, setting it adrift, checked his guns, and headed off into the recesses of the ship.

  Busch swam down through the dark waters of the Mediterranean, his dive light not providing him with any comfort underneath the enormous hull of God’s Whisper. He hated diving alone and, in fact, had not done it since he was a teenager. But it wasn’t just being alone, it was being surrounded by total darkness, not knowing what was behind you, beneath you. It was the fear of knowing that there was two miles of nothingness between you and ocean floor. It was the feeling of being trapped in a bleak solitary hell, forever on the edge of death. Busch always heeded the number-one rule of diving: never dive alone. But he had no time for rules if they had any hope of saving Michael’s father; rules should be the last thing on their minds.

  Busch swam along the dark hull, his light leading the way, inspecting it from aft to stern three times. Busch’s father was a fisherman who trolled and toiled the Atlantic as his father had before him, and as such, Busch knew boats: their designs and, most applicably now, their weaknesses. He knew exactly what he was looking for and found it. He clipped his light to his dive vest, reached in his dive bag, and pulled out the large conical device. He grabbed his light and shined it up at the bow seam that ran the width of the enormous ship. He affixed the device directly upon the joint, its magnetic grip holding tight. Michael had designed the charge. Using pieces of cast iron, he jury-rigged three half bowls packing them with Semtex. The design would shape the charge, direct the strength of the explosion inward, almost doubling the force of the blast toward the ship, causing the most possible damage.

  Busch quickly swam aft and affixed the second device at the stern seam before returning to the center, placing the last bomb on the portside seam. Each was located to effect the most damage to the hull, breaching its most vulnerable of points, ensuring that if there were compartments that could be sealed in the event of a single breach, their design would prove useless in the face of a three-point onslaught.

  Busch checked his watch; he had five minutes before he was to swim for cover. He prayed that Michael had found his father, for once the charges went off, there would be no saving anyone who remained on God’s Whisper.

  Simon rounded the corner of the lowermost level, staying low, holding tight to the wall. Two guards walked down the hall toward him, lost in conversation, unaware of his presence, unaware as Simon’s bullets pierced their brains, ending their lives. Simon dragged the two bodies into a storage room, and continued on. He found and opened a metal side door to reveal the crew quarters, confined and dark, five guards asleep, their guns next to them like security blankets.

  Simon quietly closed the door and pulled a short chain from his bag, silently wrapping it about the hatch locks, securing the door from opening. He continued on toward the back of the ship. He found the engine room and slowly opened the oversized metal door, slipping inside.

  The twin engines were enormous, each the size of a small truck. The room was beyond pristine; its battleship-gray floor shone as if it was just painted. Though they were at rest, the engines hummed in wait. The smaller motors of the rear stabilizers cycled on and off in tandem with the forward stabilizers, maintaining the ship’s current position without need of an anchor. There was no one there, no crew needed in an automated age, the large computer on the side wall performing the duty of monitoring operations. But Simon knew they would not trust it all to automation, and his suspicions were confirmed as the gun came to rest at the back of his head.

  His captor gave no command or question, holding his pistol tight against the back of Simon’s head. Simon heard him thumb his radio, calling the captain, but Simon knew that to be a useless effort; his radio frequency scrambler would impede all communications.

  As they stood there in the engine room, time seeming to slow to a stop, Simon knew they couldn’t remain; when the explosions went, this would be the first place to flood. They would be the first to die.

  Stephen Kelley walked through the salon out onto the aft deck, the guard’s .357 Magnum in his back reminding him not to run. Michael, still holding his satchel over the rail above the sea, looked at him, happy that he was still alive, but with no sense of relief. Stephen’s shoulder was still immobilized, Susan’s makeshift field dressing holding up better than he anticipated. Michael saw the fire of anger in his father’s eyes; it was exactly the emotion Michael hoped for.

  “Michael, don’t even tell me you brought that thing on board,” Stephen said.

  Michael said nothing as he looked at his dad.

  “This is not a self-pitying statement. But believe me, neither my nor anyone’s life is worth trading for that thing.”

  “Apparently, he thinks different,” Julian said as he walked over to the side rail of the ship where Michael stood, holding the satchel out over the Mediterranean. “Now give me the box.”

  Michael said nothing as he continued to hold the box over the dark ocean four stories below.

  “Kadrim,” Julian called out to the guard.

  And, as if following a script, the guard raised his pistol to Stephen’s head.

  “Three seconds.”

  Michael looked over at Stephen, who continued to subtly shake his head. And as Michael watched, he knew he had no choice.

  He handed the satchel to Julian.

  The Italian dug into the bag like a child on Christmas morning and withdrew the golden box. He held it up as he smiled triumphantly, ear to ear.

  “Kadrim,” Julian said.

  The guard lowered his gun.

  “No, no, no, no need to lower your weapon. Please kill them both.”

  Michael looked at his father; they locked eyes, a world of emotions traveling between them. They were strangers, yet father and son; they both had somehow survived the last week, only to arrive here, at this moment, waiting for the last bit of hope they clung to to be ripped away.

  Michael glanced at Julian, whose mind was lost in the satisfaction of his fulfilled greed, staring at the golden box, the Albero della Vita. Michael looked about the ship for a weapon, but nothing was in reach; he looked at the coil of rope but it was twenty feet away. He looked toward the door for Simon to arrive and save them, but everywhere he looked, he found no hope. Michael’s plan, which had been hastily slapped together, was unraveling. Kadrim stood three feet back from Stephen; he raised his pistol to Stephen’s head. There was no escape. Michael had boxed himself, had boxed everyone, i
nto a corner, literally and figuratively. And now, as a result of his failure, he was about to watch his father die.

  Captain Bertram stood at the helm, staring out at the open sea. He was living his dream: the captain of the most luxurious ship in all the world. He was two years under the employment of Julian Zivera and hadn’t regretted it for a single day. It was far more rewarding and adventurous than his commission in that pathetic force called the French navy. And the pay would allow him to retire in three more years with enough money to buy his own boat and sail the world.

  He picked up the radio and flipped the switch. “Jean Claude?” Bertram called to the ship’s engineer. They were set to get under way in less than an hour and he wanted to ensure a full pre-op rundown prior to departure. But there was no answer. The nonresponse caused him no worry; his chief engineer was the best of the best and would only be away from his post if it was necessary. Bertram picked up his cold Belgian coffee, took a long sip, and stared out at the peaceful night.

  A gun to the head is a terrifying thing, one that leaves the victim trembling in fear, placing an exclamation point over his true vulnerability. But for Simon, it was an advantage. With an assailant three feet away, the bullet could enter his skull before he had taken more than a step. But where he stood now, with the ship’s engineer resting his gun at the back of his head, he had options; and he took them. Simon simultaneously ducked his head as he spun about, grabbing the barrel, forcing it upward while driving his other fist into the man’s throat.

  The untrained man released the gun as he fell backward, clutching his neck in a vain attempt to hold off death as his air supply was ended by a crushed larnyx. Simon turned the gun on him and ended his suffering.

  Simon only had seconds before the charge beneath the engine room went off. He raced out of the room leaving the dead man upon the floor, flipped down the door bolts on the engine-room door, propping it open, and raced off down the hall.

  And the first explosion hit.

  The three explosions came in quick succession, the steel hull of the ship screaming as it was torn along its seams. The ship jolted and shook from the concussive blast that was immediately followed by a terrifying roar as the dark water poured into the ship. God’s Whisper immediately lost its balance like a drunk on a balance beam, tilting back and forth as the sea violated the lowermost decks.

  Kadrim lost his footing, falling backward.

  Julian’s eyes went wide with the realization of Michael’s hidden agenda, the inevitability of everything being destroyed. He tumbled against the wall, falling to his knees; the golden box spun out of his hands, shooting across the floor.

  The ship began to list hard to the right; glasses, pictures, anything not nailed down crashed and shattered as it was thrown from its perch.

  Michael ran for his father but fell to a sudden stop as Kadrim scrambled up and grabbed Stephen by the throat, thrusting his Magnum pistol into Stephen’s side. Michael continued to move toward them when Kadrim fired two warning shots into the ceiling, freezing Michael in his tracks.

  The main lights failed, the salon fell into darkness, the ship blending into the night. And then the emergency lights flashed on, intermittently flickering. Julian stood up and staggered across the angled floor, stumbling until he grabbed hold of a wall lamp.

  “What are you waiting for?” Julian screamed at Kadrim. “Kill him now!”

  As the explosions shook him from his position, Captain Bertram instantly knew they were under attack. The sound of the breached hull was unmistakable. He didn’t need to check to know the ship only had minutes before it was lost forever. He tried the radio but all that came back was static; he hit the distress button to send out an automatic mayday, but the emergency signal was jammed. He hit the Klaxon alarm, signaling all to abandon ship. He opened the central drawer in the helm, withdrew his pistol, and headed out of the bridge.

  Simon was racing down the lowermost hall when he was knocked from his feet by the concussive force of the blast. He struggled to his feet when the next explosions rocked the ship, actually lifting it up several feet in the water.

  And the sea was instantly there, raging in as if from a burst dam. Simon charged down the hall ahead of the mounting wave and caught the stair rail as the water nearly carried him away; he pulled himself up the stairs as the waters began their rise. Six stories he scaled, taking stairs three at a time. The emergency lighting provided minimal illumination at best. No guards impeded his way; he had ensured their inability to protect through either trapping them or removing them from this world.

  Simon hit the uppermost level of the ship and came down the cantilevered hallway, struggling to maintain his footing on the angled floor, working his way toward the salon. Seeing the shadows, hearing Julian’s and Michael’s voices, he clung tight to the wall and peered around the corner to see Michael and his father held at bay by a large guard, his gun fixed on Stephen.

  Simon slowly raised his pistol and drew a bead on the guard’s head. He steadied himself against the listing ship, wedging himself against the wall, and gently pulled the trigger.

  The guard’s head exploded, his gun haphazardly firing into the wall as he tumbled backward, dead. Simon turned the pistol on Julian and for the first time looked at the man. Polished and handsome, charismatic and refined; the perfect facade for a man who was the antithesis of everything that Simon had fought for. Who was the manifestation of everything he fought against; who wrapped himself in a cloak of God to conceal his true self, to hide the devil within. A man who killed without remorse, who promised Heaven for a dollar, who took the life of his own mother, watching with glee as the light left her eyes. And Simon saw something else.

  And it was that moment of anger, however short it was, that cost him. For as he aimed the gun and momentarily paused in contemplative rage, in a moment of recognition, a gun rammed his spine and quickly pulled back. Simon glanced over his shoulder to see the ship’s captain standing a safe distance behind—the man wasn’t as foolish as his engineer—obviously trained for pirate-like situations such as these. Simon knew that any move would be met with death, and he wasn’t prepared to die knowing that Julian was still alive and the box yet to be destroyed.

  The captain forced Simon into the room and stripped him of his pistol.

  “Sir, this ship is going down within three minutes,” Captain Bertram said to Julian as he handed him Simon’s gun. “We have to get to a lifeboat.”

  “Where is everyone else?” Julian asked.

  “Dead,” the captain said, his eyes indicating Simon.

  Julian stared at the dark-haired man and walked toward him.

  Julian and Simon stood face-to-face, staring at each other, examining, thinking, and contemplating.

  “Who are you?” Julian asked.

  Simon smiled.

  Julian looked closer; it was a moment before the emotions began to wash over his face as a realization arose in the back of his mind.

  “Do you see it?” Simon asked, their identical blue eyes boring into one another. But for their coloring, they could have been twins born sixteen years apart. “Hello, brother,” Simon said with a deadly smile.

  “Brother?” Julian laughed. But his mirth slowly faded as he looked into Simon’s eyes and saw the truth. Julian’s lungs struggled for air. “How…?”

  “I never even knew you existed until four months ago, until Genevieve told me the truth about her son. Did you know she could never have children?”

  Julian took a second, temporarily lost in the moment as the ship continued to sink. He stood there, his arms at his sides, the gun dangling in his left hand.

  “Sir,” the captain said to Julian.

  Julian ignored him as he continued to stare at his brother.

  “Sir,” the captain shouted, panic filling his voice. “If we don’t get off the ship now, we are going to die.”

  “Let me relieve you of that worry.” Without looking the captain’s way, Julian raised his pistol and shot the cap
tain in the face.

  “Why are you here?” Julian asked as he continued to look at Simon, studying his face, realizing the resemblance but for their coloring and years.

  “Nascentes morimur—from the moment we are born, we die.”

  “You’re here to pray for me?”

  “No, to kill you,” Simon said without a single hint of emotion. In a tone very familiar to Julian.

  Julian laughed, a hearty laugh, rich and full…and deadly. “Of course,” he bellowed, the humor breaking him out of his familial trance. “You are my brother.”

  The ship listed harder to the right, the superstructure deeply moaning as it was twisted and torn apart by the merciless sea.

  Julian stepped back, his focus back on the topic at hand. He leaned down, picking up the golden box from where it lay next to the wall, enthralled to be in the position of such power of a true axis mundi. And as he looked at it closer, he noted the lock and its modified appearance.

  Julian stared at the box, at the keyhole that was filled in. “What have you done?”

  “That box will never be opened again,” Michael said.

  “Open it.”

  “Can’t,” Michael said.

  “OPEN IT!” Julian screamed as he thrust the barrel of the gun into Michael’s temple, pushing it into him as hard as he could.

  “I don’t have the key,” he said calmly.

  “Yes, you do. You must. She had to give you the key.”

  “No, it is with Genevieve. You killed her, remember?”

  Julian looked at Michael and, without a word, without a threat, he turned the gun on Stephen and fired, hitting him in the leg, sending Stephen tumbling to the ship’s deck.