The Thieves of Heaven (25 page)

Michael had wasted no time booking a flight into Tel Aviv from Rome. He headed into the city, made his rounds purchasing supplies, took a car to the foothills in Jerusalem, and began his trek. As he ascended Mount Kephas, his thoughts were on Mary. Soon they would be together again, his journey would be complete, and for once he would have used his innate talent for good.

At the top of the last rise he caught sight of it: an ancient stone church. A simple wooden sign indicated Sunday services. Across the field, stretching to the horizon, was an enormous cemetery. Not a soul was in sight. Not a town or any civilization, for that matter. The Church of the Ascension was a relic of an age gone by. It was obvious, in this primarily Jewish part of the world, Mass was seldom attended, if at all.

The orange glow of sunset bathed the church as he pushed open its door. The interior was spartan, constructed of timber and fieldstone. No windows, only slits in the thick stone walls. The fading rays of the sun illuminated a crucifix over the altar. There was no sense of time within the sanctuary. As far as Michael was concerned, it could have been millennia ago. The central altar table of weathered wood and rock was covered with a white cloth decorated with the Papal symbol of two crossed keys. Two carafes, one filled with wine, the other with water, were set next to a tin bowl. On either side of the altar table were two candles, their flickering light reflecting off an old chalice. It wasn’t lost on Michael that someone maintained the candles.

He walked around the altar, feeling the walls, the priest’s chair, the small tabernacle that was set off to one side. He had brought his tools but he doubted he would need them tonight. He was not in some high-security museum but a simple, antiquated church whose function was not to keep people out but draw them in. This was a place where crime was clearly never given a second thought, except in forgiveness and sermons.

Michael crawled under the altar table and lay on his back. The underside was thin and solid; there wasn’t enough room for what he was looking for. He rolled over. The floor of the altar was built up about six inches from the rest of the church and was made of an ageless beech wood. Michael tapped the floorboards, working his way across the four-foot area. Directly beneath the altar, a hollow sound echoed back. Like an artist, he pulled his knife, inserted it, and pried up the plank.

Six inches down, there was nothing but dirt floor. He pried up the two adjacent boards: again, nothing but dirt. Michael sheathed his knife and stood. He took a seat in the first pew and thought. The Catholic Church made it a practice to place holy relics within the altars of each of its churches, imbuing all of them with a sense of the presence of God. In fact, there was a section of the Vatican called the Relics Library, a macabre chamber filled with nothing but the bones of saints and ancient artifacts. Its librarian’s job was to fill tiny boxes and envelopes with such relics and send them on to churches across the world for safekeeping within their altars. Michael stared at the simple altar before him. Surely, this church would not be an exception to the rule.

He moved back to the altar, drew his knife, and again crawled under the table. He studied the compacted dirt, patted it, dug at it with his fingers, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then, taking his knife, he raised it high and in a single swift motion stabbed it into the earth.

Michael’s arm reverberated in pain as the knife came to an abrupt halt. The six-inch blade pierced the dirt…but only to five inches. He withdrew the knife and stabbed again, a foot to the left. Again, the blade went only five inches deep. A third stab, two feet to the right: again the hilt stopped an inch shy of the earth.

Michael frantically started digging with his blade. The ground was hard-packed as if it hadn’t been disturbed for centuries. His arms grew tired as he worked away, loosening the earth and then digging it out with his hands. Every few minutes he would stop and peer outside. The solitude was getting to him, it was beyond quiet. Even his digging seemed to be silent. Until he hit metal. It was a distinct
ping,
the knife squealing as it skidded across the unseen surface. Faster, he pulled the dirt away, the pile next to him growing higher by the minute.

Slowly, the obstruction started to come into view. He cleared it off, swiping the last bits of earth away. It was metal, pitted, and very old. Its hammer-worked surface was dull and marred. And it was hollow. Michael’s heart beat faster. He was correct: something of value lay just within.

His fingers found the edge of what was now clearly a metal box, about four feet square. And there was no lock, no handle, no way in.

Michael pulled from his bag a portable oxyacetylene torch and lit up; the blue flame danced shadows across the walls. He adjusted the flame to near invisibility and went straight for the edges of the box, the thinnest part, the twelve-hundred-degree flame wasting the welds quickly. He cut the flame just short of circumnavigating the perimeter of the box, pulled a small crowbar from his bag, and inserted it in the broken seam. The top of the box creaked as he pried it up. Peering inside, he could barely make out another container about four feet below. Hopping in, he crouched to find it was a small metal chest. He hoisted it out of the hole and himself right behind it. There was no lock on the chest, merely a simple latch, which he raised.

He reached in and pulled out a small wooden case. This was the size of a cigar box, ancient, ornate gates carved in its top. Michael laid the box upon the altar and opened it. Inside was an old white cloth, tattered and worn. Michael removed this and reverently set it down as he had done so many times in the past. It was always a spiritual experience when it was diamonds or artwork, but this would be different. Not a holy experience, not a divine or blessed event, but an achievement unmatched by any conquest in his life. The contents of this cloth, he knew deep in his heart, would be the resurrection of life for his wife.

He unfurled the cloth and out tumbled two simple, tarnished keys. Almost exact replicas of their stand-ins from the Vatican. These, too, were slightly larger than a modern-day key; each thick and almost four inches long. One silver in appearance, the other gold. As Michael rolled them in his palm, the weight told him the truth: they were not made of precious metals; most likely they were brass and iron. These were the objects he was searching for. He rolled the keys back up in the cloth and returned them to their case, wrapped the case in his sweater, and threw it in his satchel.

Michael stepped from the church. The sun had long since set. Only its faint glow remained, painting the horizon of the early summer sky purple. In the distance, a low fog was rolling in. He started down the path, comfortable in the growing darkness. Darkness was his friend. He always enjoyed the cover of night, knowing that while he couldn’t see he, in turn, couldn’t be seen. He felt an elation; he was done and on his way home.

“Excuse me?” a voice called out.

Michael strained to see through the darkness. Wary, he slowed his pace.

“Can I help you?” The voice came from somewhere up ahead. The darkness refused to give up the stranger. The speaker’s accent was not Hebrew, not Middle Eastern. It was Italian.

Michael came to a complete stop. “Show yourself.”

“Unfortunately, I am without light. Perhaps you have one.”

Michael pulled out his flashlight and shined it down the path, sweeping it back and forth. And while it was a powerful lamp, he could see no one through the thickening fog.

A cold chill ran up his spine, instinct took over; he held the light as far from his body as his arm permitted. He was being set up—the light was a bull’s-eye and he was the target. As he squinted to see—

KPOW
. The light flew out of his outstretched hand, blown to bits.

Michael took off, cutting through the open field. The darkness and fog had combined as one; he had no idea where he was going; he knew only that he was heading away from the report of the gun. Michael was flying, but his pursuer was still closing.

All the preparation for the Vatican theft had been a waste. He had timed that sleight-of-hand operation and performed it smoothly, which only emboldened his ego. He’d been vain of his expertise and it had blinded him: this evening’s job was an amateur theft and he made an amateur mistake.

His heart pounded in his ears as he ran from the unseen threat. While he had lost his faith in God, it crossed his mind that right now might be a good time to regain that faith, to kneel down and pray. But he was sure of one thing: he wasn’t on God’s top-ten list at the moment. Then he saw it. Up ahead, through the fog, gravestones…the cemetery.

Michael pumped his legs, straining, panting, only ten more yards. If he could make the graveyard he would have a chance. He was so close to success, so close to bringing home the job, so close to saving Mary. Too close to fail.

He cut into the graveyard, dodging ancient headstones, leaping footstones. Though his sight was impaired by the night and the weather, what he could see—all that he could see—was tombstones, thousands of them, stretching in every direction. He cut deeper into the cemetery. The fog hugged the ground here like a down blanket, creating a knee-high covering as thick as milk. He was moving at top speed, ignoring the obstacles hidden in the mist. Then he tripped on a low-lying grave marker. He tumbled headlong into a tombstone. Dazed, he tried to shake off the pain.

His pursuer was there. His footsteps were careful, evenly paced, the footfalls of a hunter closing in relentlessly for the kill. Michael couldn’t pin down his location; he sounded as if he was everywhere. The mist obscured sight while its water droplet components dispersed the noise in every direction, amplifying distant sounds.

Michael was being stalked.

He was faced with two options: run or hide. He risked the possibility of giving himself away if he was to run but was equally challenged by hiding without defense. He never carried a gun. Guns were against everything he stood for. He had always considered himself a gentleman thief. He never stole from anyone who couldn’t afford it, or wasn’t insured. Most of his jobs were from museums and galleries, well-insured institutions. He wasn’t in the business of taking life. Right now he was in the business of giving life—Mary’s life—but if it came down to the stranger or him, Michael was prepared: he would kill.

“I will find you.” The voice seemed everywhere.

Michael hugged the ground, hiding at the foot of the tombstone of Ishmael Hadacas. Born 1896, died 1967. The markings said that he had died in the war for Israeli freedom, a Coptic Christian giving his life for the land of the Jews.
He must have been a brave man,
Michael thought; he wished Ishmael was here now. He could use an ally.

“You do not know what you have wrought if you continue,” the Italian voice called out. Whoever was out there was scared, Michael sensed it. Perhaps a guard who had fallen asleep on the job or a police officer who had grown overconfident from years of tedium.

Michael remained silent, looking around. He didn’t dare move.

“I ask you for the sake of Christianity, for the sake of all peoples.” The even-toned voice was almost a whisper, filled with desperation. “If you do not relent, I will have no choice, I must kill you.”

Michael knew the man’s words to be true. Slowly, silently, he began crawling. He strained his eyes around each headstone. He hoped he was crawling away from the voice. In his estimate, he was crawling south, back toward the village path. He checked his watch; it had been ten minutes since he last heard the man’s voice. Maybe his pursuer had given up, had gone away, accepting failure. But these were false hopes. The man was still there somewhere. It had become a waiting game. Patience would win the day.

Then he got an idea. Michael removed his dark coat and draped it on a crumbling tombstone. He crawled twenty yards and propped himself against another headstone.

Michael gathered some stones, laying them out before him. He could barely make out the jacket-covered gravestone in the distance. He hoped it was convincing, giving the appearance of a man seated on the ground. He listened. Nothing. He looked around: the man was still out there and Michael was about to find out exactly where.

He gently hurled one of the stones at the jacketed grave marker. Silence followed. He picked up the next stone, lobbing it. As soon as it hit, a shot rang out. Michael’s coat crumpled along with the tombstone.

Michael’s heart was in his throat; the flame of the barrel had been only a few feet away. He didn’t breathe. He could see his pursuer now. The figure stood over six feet tall. His head swept side to side as he raced toward the remains of his crumbled target. The way the man moved, the way he carried himself, terrified Michael. This was a hunter who would never give up the chase. Michael’s new fear sharpened his resolve. He was up against a professional. The man was military.

Michael picked up another stone. With all his might, he hurled it as if it was a football. The rock sailed at least seventy-five yards before landing against another headstone. And in a fraction of a second, another shot rang out. A second tombstone shattered. The report of the gun echoed for miles. But to Michael’s surprise, this flash was farther away than the last one. The man had silently worked
away
from Michael.

Michael was up and running into the thickening fog. Shots exploded behind him. The shots continued, evenly spaced, methodical, but coming from a greater and greater distance each time. Michael didn’t look back. He just kept running.