The Thieves of Heaven (26 page)

Chapter 13

T
he great Bavarian mansion stood at the top
of the mile-long drive. Made from fieldstone, it was nearly two hundred years old, built for some long-buried member of the German royal family. One hundred and thirty kilometers outside of Berlin on a thousand-acre parcel, the big house was rumored to contain over one hundred rooms, but the house staff was never able to find more than eighty-four. The host of elegant cars in the garages never saw much use. The staff mechanic was the only one to drive them, keeping them tuned, oiled, and ready should their owner ever decide to get a license.

Rumors prevailed of the wild doings of the current inhabitant within the confines of the great wall that circumnavigated the entire property. From a security standpoint, it was on a par with any U.S. Embassy. The grounds staff alone totaled twenty; their two-thousand-euro weekly salary was not only for their special skills but also assisted in keeping wagging tongues at bay. Each had his specific chore: gardening, lawn care, masonry—but these were skills learned only in the recent past. All had spent their prior lives in the military. As a whole they loved their jobs, it was easy work, excellent pay, and never once did they have to call upon their talents with weapons. Though they couldn’t understand why a legitimate businessman would need his own private army.

The entrance hall was spectacular, reaching up three stories; the leaded glass windows positioned to capture light all day. The interior was grand, with deep rich tones, dark mahogany walls offset by maroon and green curtains. The furnishings were a mixture of the ages, tapestries older than the cornerstone of the house, furnishings representing all periods. The wealth on display was inconceivable. And one thing stood out above all else, it was obvious: there was no lady of the house. This was the home of a gentleman. No light airy floral prints in the living room, no breezy yellows in the parlor. Everything was masculine, right down to the interior house staff.

The butler was a kindly old man with deep-set eyes lost in an ancient, wrinkled face. Charles ran the house; his word was the rule. The butler knew the master better than anyone: his needs and wants, his travels and tastes. And while the master was quiet and reserved, Charles knew, too, that if you crossed him you would never return. No one would impede Charles from pleasing the man who ruled this vast house; that was how he was trained, how any good butler was trained, and he would be damn sure not to fail.

Charles bid Michael welcome. He showed him in and silently led the way to the library. He did his butler’s duty, offering to take Michael’s jacket and satchel, but Michael refused, holding tight to the leather bag on his shoulder. He wasn’t letting go of it until the deal was done. Charles poured Michael a drink and then excused himself, telling Michael to make himself comfortable.

The enormous library was filled with books, thousands of titles. Michael had always felt a man’s books were a representation of his mind and his soul. This man had everything. Michael walked past the car-sized fireplace, past the wingback leather chairs to a bookcase ladder. It soared to the top of the room, twenty feet up, and slid on its own track. Michael could spend a lifetime here and never even get to the second level of volumes. He pulled out an old, leather-bound book on geology and walked toward the windows for better light. He was about to look through the text when the doors opened.

Finster stood there, dressed in a tweed sport coat, a smile on his face.

“One of my favorites.” Finster’s eyes twinkled as he approached Michael. “Written in nineteen twelve by Alfred Wegener. One of the first to pose the theory of tectonics. You are holding one of only three volumes in existence.”

“I’m sorry.” Michael clutched the book, unsure what to do with it, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Nonsense. You are a guest in my home; I am honored by your presence. While you are here, you may avail yourself of anything you wish. Please, keep it, it is an excellent read.”

“No, that’s all right.”

“Please, a book, once read, is merely a trophy. I have no use for it anymore.”

“Thank you, but I couldn’t.”

“If you change your mind…” Finster relented. “Let me show you around.”

“I can’t stay—”

“Another drink?”

At that, Charles appeared with a silver serving tray, two champagne flutes balanced upon it. Finster passed a glass to Michael and raised his own. “To your wife’s good health.”

“Thank you,” Michael said as they chinked their glasses.

“Can I persuade you to stay for dinner?”

“I really can’t.”

“Certainly, you’ll join me in a cigar?” Pulling out two cigars, Finster offered one.

Michael raised his hand in refusal.

Finster smiled. “I have too many vices: liquor, cigars, women. Unfortunately—what is that saying? The spirit is willing…”

“…but the flesh is weak. I’m sorry, Mr. Finster—”

“August,” Finster insisted.

“August. I’m sure you can understand, I really wish to finish our business and get back to my wife.”

“Of course. But tell me, what happened in Rome? I haven’t heard from you since you left Italy and you were extremely cryptic when last we spoke.”

“Rome, the Vatican…it was a decoy.” There was a weariness in Michael’s voice. “The keys were on the outskirts of Jerusalem.”

“Jerusalem?” Finster’s interest intensified. “Where in Jerusalem?”

“A little out-of-the-way church.”

“Interesting. Guards?”

“One.”

Finster pondered this a moment. “And? Did you dispatch him?”

“He tried to ‘dispatch’ me.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran.”

Finster smiled and nodded. “Could you describe this guard?”

“It was dark,” Michael answered uneasily. “Why do you ask?”

Finster seemed lost in thought. He turned and opened the doors to the hallway. “Let’s talk and walk, shall we?”

Michael set the book on the table and followed Finster.

They walked together through the grand house, past billiard rooms and game rooms, ballrooms and parlors. Finster lit his cigar, drew a greedy puff, and slowly exhaled, the smoke lifting into a rich gray cloud above their heads.

“Life’s simple pleasures.” He savored the moment. “I read a study once that said the indulgence of a vice can be healthy. After all, what is a vice but something we find pleasurable, irresistible? Do you have a vice, Michael?”

“Not anymore.”

“Of course.” Finster nodded in understanding, his white ponytail bobbing against his shoulders as he did so. “You are a reformed man. I, on the other hand—let’s just say I’ve yet to meet the person who can convert me from my ways. I couldn’t live without my”—he held out his cigar and drink—“
weaknesses
.”

“Never know unless you try,” Michael replied.

“Ah, but what is the reason? I’ve earned the right. I have the power to quit or continue and that is what’s important. The power.”

“Obviously, you’ve never been married.”

Finster laughed heartily, patting Michael on the shoulder. “Come. I’d like to show you something.”

They stopped at a heavy wooden door, the earthy brown wood older than the ages. It seemed oddly out of place in the elegant home surrounding it. Finster reached out and opened the behemoth. Its hinges squealed in protest. Ahead, a long set of stone stairs faced them. A musty smell wafted up. Michael couldn’t pinpoint the odor but it conjured unpleasant memories of prison. The stairs wound down, spiraling into darkness, like something out of a Boris Karloff movie.

“A little dramatic.”

“I thrive on drama,” Finster replied cheerfully as he led the way downward.

The inky blackness instantly engulfed them. Michael loved the dark, always had, it had been his friend. But not this dark. The odor hit him again, musty and raw, the sour smell of jail cells, solitary confinement, death row. It was the smell of hopelessness. Their footsteps echoed off the walls. Michael closely followed Finster, who remained strangely silent, giving no details or guidance.

It had been at least a two-minute walk down stairs and through caverns; never once did Michael catch a glimpse of light. The moisture had grown in the air the deeper into the earth they traveled; it felt cold, clammy, unnatural. It occurred to Michael that Finster could kill him now and there’d be nothing he could do about it. This was one of the reasons he never did third-party work: you never really knew your employer or their motives. And murder was only one step away from grand larceny.

With a flash, the lights blazed on. Michael’s eyes burned at the sudden glare, white spots dotting the back of his eyelids. Instinctively, Michael shielded his eyes. As the seconds passed, his vision returned and he began to look around. In that moment, he wished he was back in the dark, for while the blackened passage had scared him, that had only been his imagination running wild. This was real.

Before him was an assortment of artifacts, some ancient, some of a far more recent vintage. Stone pottery, medieval armor, African wood carvings, Oriental pictographs. Each as different from its neighbor as possible except for one thing: they were all religious in nature. This was an ominous gallery of religion, fear, and horror. Stacks and stacks of paintings were piled against each other. Faces seemed to cry out for mercy as if they were somehow trapped in the canvas.

“What do you think?” Finster asked with pride.

“Unique,” was all Michael could say, doing everything in his power to mask his fear.

“Charles, my butler, calls it the dungeon.”

“It captures that quality.” Michael hoped the humor would mask his alarm as he unconsciously clutched the key box through the leather satchel. He couldn’t understand it but the box seemed to be the only thing giving him comfort as he looked out at the chilling cavern spread before him.

“Thank you.” Finster pointed down an aisle between the artwork. “This way.”

The hall—the entire space—was like something out of the Dark Ages. It was enormous, of this Michael was sure, for the light trailed off into blackness before the far wall was evident. The house was centuries old but this place…this place had been around for far longer. This was another world deep below the surface. Finster had claimed it as his own, filling it with a macabre collection that would never be part of any auction at Sotheby’s.

Was this merely the warped collection of an eccentric or was it something more, something worse? As Michael passed each piece, he thought maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Maybe this was just a warehouse for weird objets d’art. Stuff Finster didn’t deem appropriate for display in his home. Maybe it was like the attic of every grandmother: crammed with wondrous frightening things, items collected over a lifetime’s journeys, things that appeared scary on the surface but deeper down held a much more innocent meaning. Like an old china doll with a missing eye or the dusty steamer trunk filled with moth-eaten old dresses.

They arrived at a huge wooden door set in stone. Its ancient lock’s black color was deeper than night. Finster withdrew a set of keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and opened it.

This room was small, about ten by ten; there was no artwork here. The solid stone walls had recessed shelves carved in them five feet off the ground. The room was virtually empty but for a mahogany pedestal standing in its exact center.

“My latest acquisitions go in here for my private enjoyment.” Finster used his cigar to light a candle on a shelf and smiled. “Sets a mood, doesn’t it?”

Michael watched as Finster continued to light small candles along the perimeter of the chamber. He found this room more comforting, no strange carvings or statues staring back at him, no suffering eyes peering out from the shadows. The walls were now bathed in candlelight; it was almost peaceful after the macabre collection they’d just passed. Michael said nothing as he reached into his bag, pulling out the carved box.

“Beautiful.” Finster stared at his prize.

Michael held out the box.

But Finster stepped back, raising his hand in protest. “You should have the honor of placing it on the display pedestal.”

Michael, a bit confused, acquiesced. He opened the box, uncovered the two keys, and stepped forward for Finster’s inspection. Finster glanced at the keys but again backed away.

“Is something wrong?” Michael asked.

“Breathtaking. Their beauty leaves me…in awe.” Finster steadied himself in the doorway. Michael reached in the box, pulled out the silver key, and passed it toward his host. But again the German raised his hand. “No, no.” Finster was trembling. Michael was reminded of a house-bound mother of three who’d won a car on
The Price is Right
. Like her, Finster’s mind seemed to be on overload as he struggled to comprehend his good fortune and what was now his.

Michael smiled. “It’s not going to bite you.”

“Never know,” Finster joked. “I prefer to examine my possessions privately. Taking my time. When I obtain something I have desired for so long I’m sometimes”—he paused—“overcome.”