The Thieves of Faith (25 page)

Two lives lay in his hands now, two people he cared about. And his heart broke, for he had no idea how he could possibly save them both.

“All I know is that she is alive,” Fetisov said as they walked across Red Square past St. Basil’s Cathedral.

“What, is that supposed to make me feel good?” Michael said as he fought to understand the added severity of Genevieve’s kidnapping.

“Despite what you may have heard, Julian does care for his mother, he loves her very much,” Fetisov said.

“Loves her so much he hunted her like an animal?”

“Look at the lengths you will go to to save a father you have yet to know.”

Michael glared at Fetisov, at Julian’s Russian pawn.

“Families are complicated,” Fetisov said. “The relationship between a parent and a child is filled with difficulty and much misunderstanding. You obviously have never been a father. Julian loves his mother and does not want to see her die.”

“Then why not pay the ransom? The world under the Kremlin belongs to Russia anyway. He’s got money, power; in the whole scheme of things, what more could he possibly want in life? What’s so special about this little box?”

“Do I need to remind you that you are the one with the map, not Julian? And do I need to remind you that he will kill your father if you don’t bring him the box and Genevieve? He has added to his demands: your father for his mother. Be thankful he doesn’t add anything else or the chance of seeing your father for the second time in your life will be limited to him resting in a coffin.”

Chapter 24

T
he full-floor suite at Le Royal Meridien
National afforded a grand view of the Kremlin skyline, lit up in its majestic beauty. Its burst of colors and Seussian-like rooftops was like something out of a fairy tale. Michael found himself still trying to erase the dark, dreary assumptions he had formed of the Russian world over the years. The Russia through the hotel window was certainly not the Russia of his imagination.

Michael sat at the dining room table, his charts and documents spread out before him. It was three in the morning, the time when he did his best thinking. The world was quiet, sleeping, and there were no interruptions. He especially liked the time difference; it was the first time he embraced jet lag.

He wondered what he was doing here. Michael had never in all his years heard of a robbery at the Kremlin; he didn’t doubt that there had been attempts, he just knew no one ever emerged from the Kremlin walls to tell the tale. As he thought on the task ahead, he almost wished he was planning an assault on the White House: at least he would be afforded a fair trial if he got caught.

Michael pulled out and examined the map of the Kremlin underground. The diagram was nearly five feet wide and over three feet high, a comprehensive depiction of the entire subterranean world beneath the Kremlin. Each room marked, each path detailed; it was the key to the unveiling of the Kremlin’s long lost history and a primer to forgotten riches, mysteries, and controversies. The detail was mind-numbing as it portrayed all levels and was marked with legends and guideposts written five hundred years in the past. Rivers and tunnels, caverns and large rooms all rendered in detail down to the ghostly penciled-in overlay of the actual Kremlin structures on the terra firma above. The depiction of the small city didn’t approximate its current configuration and new structures, but he was not concerned with that detail. Through an extrapolation of the current layout in combination with the map’s underground configuration, he had the bearings he would need to find his way to not only the Liberia but the newly constructed lab where Genevieve was being held.

The location of the Byzantine Liberia was clearly marked on the far westerly side of the map, not far from the banks of the Moskva River. It appeared to be one hundred and twenty feet below the surface through a series of tunnels and canals in a structure that was state-of-the-art five hundred years ago. But the world depicted on the parchment before him did not tell him of the deterioration that accompanied the centuries. He did not know nor could he anticipate whether the clearly delineated pathways still existed, whether they had succumbed to rock falls and cave-ins, whether he was studying a map whose value might equate to nothing more than a frameable work of art. But whatever the case might be, come tomorrow he would find out if he truly had a chance at success.

Susan wandered in, dressed in a long silk robe; untied, it fluttered with her walk. Her black hair was brushed out over her shoulders. Her makeup was gone and Michael wondered why she even bothered with the daily ritual. She had one of those rare faces that needed no accent, no concealers or enhancers to increase her allure.

Michael forced himself to look back at his work.

“You can’t sleep, either, huh?” Susan asked as she sat down across from Michael.

“I’m not a big sleeper.” Michael kept his head buried in his work. “Do you need anything?” Michael said it more to get rid of her than to help her.

“I just came down to say I’m sorry.”

Michael looked up. “For…?”

She pursed her lips. “I guess a whole bunch of things. My actions, things I’ve said.” She paused before finally adding, “The loss of your wife.”

Michael stared at her a moment. “Thanks.” And he went back to his work.

“How do you do it?” Susan asked quietly.

“Do what?” Michael didn’t look up.

“Go through life.”

Michael looked at her, surprised at her intimate question. He realized, though, that she had faced a loss similar to his. He thought for a moment. And then finally, “I just try to tuck the pain away and take comfort in the fact that she is in a better place.”

“Do you believe that?”

Michael ran his hands down his face as if the action would give him the answer he sought to provide. He looked at her, and gently said, “After everything I have seen, I believe it with all my heart.”

“What was she like?”

“Mary was the air that I breathed. She was my best friend.”

Susan tilted her head as if in understanding. “No one knew me better than Peter. He didn’t care about my mood swings—”

Michael smirked. “He must have had the patience of a saint.”

She smiled. “He put me first. I never had to look out for myself or watch my back, because I knew he would do it for me. And nothing mattered as long as we were together.”

Michael’s relationship with Mary had been the same way. And that was what he missed the most. The simple things like just being together, doing little favors for each other with the only reward being the look in his wife’s eyes. The selflessness of love: no agenda, no jealousy. So simple yet so rare.

Susan was staring at Michael. “You would have liked Peter. He always wanted a brother.”

Michael didn’t know what to say.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Michael shook his head. “I don’t have any family.”

Susan brushed her hair off her face and sat back in her chair. “You have a father.”

The way she said it, it was as if Stephen was always Michael’s father. And as he thought on it, he realized that he was beginning to think of Stephen in that context. “I guess I do.”

“He’s a good man, Michael. He is worth saving more than anyone I have ever known.” Susan rose from the table and reached in her pocket. She pulled out a four-by-six picture and handed it to him. “Good night.” And she turned and left the room.

Michael watched her walk down the long marble hallway before finally looking at the picture. It was of a young couple. Michael recognized the man, hair black as night, the build of an athlete. But the woman…a girl really, a teenager. Her blue eyes stared from the picture into his soul. Michael didn’t need to ask to know who it was. She was prettier than he expected. And it felt odd. She was less than half his age when this picture was taken; she looked like a child. Michael couldn’t imagine the fear she felt, being pregnant at such a young age. He knew she had died in childbirth, bringing him into the world as she was leaving it: a pair of souls passing each other on the road to Heaven. She was robbed of her years, just like Mary. Michael felt a handful of emotions from love, to pain, to regret, and finally appreciation.

He realized that Susan had the frame of mind to find the picture before she left the town house back in Boston. Through all her screaming and ranting and raving, she still had the presence of thought to do something kind. Busch’s suspicions about her were right. Her sandpaper personality was a facade, a shield against pain.

Michael looked up, but Susan hadn’t lingered; she was already off to bed. He looked at the picture of his mother and father one more time before tucking it in his pocket next to Mary’s letter.

Chapter 25

J
ulian stood in the middle of the ballroom
dressed in a new Armani tuxedo, with a beautiful brunette draped on his arm. Sheila was from Texas. Long legged, with a face chiseled by the best Beverly Hills surgeon her daddy’s money could buy. She had flown in to personally deliver her check to this man of God.

She was raised Protestant, a strict, wealthy American religious upbringing. But the rhetoric espoused at Stanford University had forced her to try and reconcile the disparities of God and science. She had lost her faith and turned her back on her Church for ten years. But as she grew older and watched her third husband walk out the door, she knew she needed God again. But instead of God she found something better: she found Julian. He catered to all her needs—spiritual, medical, physical. And he came with the benefits of pharmaceuticals and good looks. Not to mention his passion in the bedroom.

She watched as he left her side, walking across the ballroom floor, taking the stairs up to the first landing, where he stood before his crowd of two hundred guests, all successful, all wealthy, all in black tie, looking up at him in anticipation of his words. They were a mixture of serious academics, eccentric celebutards, and titans of industry; wayward souls in search of something to embrace. Each held sway in their respective fields of expertise, in their circles of influence, but here, to Julian, they all gladly played second fiddle, hoping for a private moment of wisdom that could change their lives. Though from different backgrounds, there was a commonality in their conduct and dress. Tuxedoed and gowned. Each striving to distinguish. Dressing to impress. To impress Julian, to impress each other, to impress God.

They had all managed to work purple accents into their attire: cummerbunds, suspenders, socks, ties, gowns, jewelry, hairpieces. And not just any purple; Tyrian purple, the original purple from a dye whose expense in ancient times was far greater than gold. Hence it became the color of royalty, hence the color of God’s Truth.

With all religions, there is reverential jewelry, symbols—crosses, crucifixes, stars of David—worn in pride of identity with one’s beliefs. All of society had succumbed to a similar custom, wearing rubber bracelets or colored ribbons on lapels in solidarity with a cause. And God’s Truth was no different. They had their symbols, they had their holy keepsake. It was a bastardization of iconic symbology. A symbol worn on bejeweled necklaces, on gold signet rings. An amalgam of the icon for infinity, the atomic symbol of swirling atoms, and the cross of Christ, all against a background of Tyrian purple, the color that had become the sign of pride for one’s celebration of God’s Truth.

Julian took in his festive, wealthy crowd, inwardly smiling, outwardly humble. He bowed his head, placed his fingers against his temples, rubbing gently as if focusing his mind. The room grew silent, the moment held until he finally lifted his head and looked out at his audience.

“As we move through life, we take for granted the promise of tomorrow, the gift of life that has been bestowed upon us,” Julian said as he raised his arms outstretched to his flock, his hands animated as if they spoke every word. “We forget that our flesh is but mortal, that our hearts are fragile and finite. How often has man prayed in vain at the bedside of a parent as he watched them take their last breath, while he stood by helpless in his grief and sorrow?” Julian paused, looking about the room. “If you could do anything to save your mother, your father, how far would you go?