The Thieves of Faith (13 page)

Pursuant to our agreement, please give him this box, as the contents are meant for him and him alone. I assure you that the contents of this box are not illegal in any way, but are of much interest and value to certain parties. It is for this reason I fear carrying it. I do appreciate your assistance in this matter and if there is anything I can ever do for you in return, please let me know.

I hope you both find that common ground to base a relationship on. Neither of you can fill the void the other is experiencing, but I hope the two of you can find an understanding, for there is no greater bond than that of father and son.

Sincerely,

Genevieve Zivera

Michael turned to Susan, his eyes becoming suddenly focused. “Where did Stephen get this?”

“I have no idea,” Susan said.

“Do you know when he got it, was it recently?”

“I never saw it before today, he never mentioned it to me. Why? What’s going on?”

Busch saw the distress in Michael’s face. He walked over to his friend and crouched down, looking him in the eye. “Michael, what’s going on, who is this guy Kelley?”

Michael looked at Busch, mixed emotions in his heart, and finally said, “He’s my father.”

Michael wasn’t sure who was more taken aback, Busch or Susan. They were both silent, absorbing what Michael just said. And then their questions came in staccato bursts:

“What! How can he be your father?” Susan asked.

“Why was he kidnapped, Michael?” Busch cut in.

“Who the hell are you?” Susan demanded. “You can’t be his son.”

“You didn’t answer me, Michael. Why was he kidnapped?”

“Is there a ransom demand?” Susan asked. “Because the firm will pay anything. Five million, ten million, whatever it takes.”

Michael turned to Susan and nodded. “They have a very specific ransom in mind.”

The questions kept coming but Michael wasn’t listening, he was looking at the box on the table before him. This was why Genevieve came to see him and carried Stephen Kelley’s card, this was why she rented a car in Boston. This was irrefutable evidence…she was alive.

Michael was afraid of the answers that lay before him, within the lockbox that Genevieve was so afraid to carry, that she wanted so desperately for Michael to have. He didn’t dare open it in front of these two.

“Listen, this is what I know,” Michael said as he sat back on the floral couch. “Stephen Kelley has been kidnapped by a man named Julian Zivera.”

Busch suddenly turned to Michael, his eyebrows raised in question.

“And he is being ransomed for an antique box in Russia.”

“Russia?” Susan asked, confused.

“Zivera? As in Genevieve Zivera?” Busch blurted out.

Michael nodded.

Busch shook his head. “No way. This is a world of bullshit.”

“Yeah,” Michael said as he looked at Busch. “Genevieve is Julian’s mother.”

“His mother,” Busch said as if trying to convince himself. “Michael, we’ve walked into something very bad here. And what about this box, what is it? What does it contain? And don’t tell me cookies—”

“How are we supposed to get to a box in Russia? What is it, like a Fabergé egg or something?” Susan was unable to stand still.

“They want me to steal it.”

Hearing Michael’s words, Busch took a seat, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.

“Steal?” Susan asked.

Michael looked at her but said nothing.

“Steal?” Susan began walking haphazardly about the room, her nerves worn on her sleeve. “We need to call the FBI.”

“We are not calling anybody,” Michael said. “They’ll kill Kelley if any law enforcement shows up.”

“How are
you
going to steal this thing?” Susan asked in a dismissive tone.

Michael looked to Busch, who remained silent, his eyes still closed.

“How?” she asked again.

“Tell her,” Busch said from behind closed lids.

Michael finally looked at Susan. “I have a certain skill set—”

“You’re a criminal?” Susan exploded. “Some supposed lost son shows up and moments later Stephen is kidnapped.” She could barely contain her rage.

“Look—”

Susan finally stopped pacing, her movements coming to a complete halt. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Michael rose from his couch. “Are you out of your mind?”

They glared, their anger at the situation focused on each other.

“I think we all have to calm down here,” Busch said from the chair without opening his eyes. “The two of you go back to your corners and think about this.”

Susan walked over to the table where the metal lockbox sat. “Open this,” she demanded.

Michael looked over at Busch, who had finally opened his eyes. An unspoken sentiment was shared that they would have to try to avoid smacking this woman. He turned back to Susan. “This box is for me and me alone.”

“Not if it has to do with Stephen.”

“It has to do with me and if I decide to share its contents, that is my decision.” Michael picked up the box, examining it. Without looking up, he said, “Julian Zivera. What do you know about him?”

Susan looked confused. “What? Nothing, why? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Since he is the one who took your husband…everything.”

Susan glared at Michael. If her eyes were filled with anger before they seemed to reflect hate now.

“I suggest if you have a computer in the house that you go hop on the Internet—”

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do—”

Busch finally rose from his chair, his action halting her mid-sentence. “I think we all need to clear our heads if we are going to figure out how to get your husband back. Michael’s right, we need to find out what we’re up against. If you can point me to a computer, I’ll check this guy Zivera out. Why don’t you go make some coffee?” Busch regretted the statement before it even left his lips.

“Coffee? COFFEE? I’m a goddamn attorney, a former assistant DA, dammit. I don’t make coffee!”

Busch threw his hands up. “My mistake.”

Susan headed out of the room but then turned back. She stared at the two men, took a calming breath, and turned her attention to Busch. “The computer is in the library down the hall,” she said quietly, and looked at Michael. “Stephen is not my husband.”

Chapter 12

T
he Kremlin. Michael had heard about it,
read about it, but to him, like most people from the West, the Kremlin meant only the seat of power of a once great nation, the other superpower. The Kremlin was, in fact, a city within a city, a collective fortress behind imposing walls that dated back more than five hundred years. Comprising churches, armories, museums, and palaces, it was a bastion of Russian pride that over the last hundred years had grown synonymous with Communism, oppression, and secrecy.

But in point of fact, it was so much more. A world of profound artistic achievement, of a beauty and style uniquely captured in the northern kingdom unlike anywhere on the planet. Buildings of architectural complexity that could never be duplicated. It was a place of contradictions: its Cathedral Square contained a concentration of churches in a country where religion had been outlawed for seventy-five years; a new democratic government that preached freedom yet remained hidden behind secrets; a location of artistic beauty and achievement yet an afterthought when compared to the Louvre, the Smithsonian, or the Vatican Museums. It was a symbol of a land seeking a new identity while trying to shake a reputation of tyranny and domination.

But above all, beyond its museums, beyond its historical beauty and mysteries, it was the capital of Russian society, the central location of its power, of its president. The Kremlin was Russia’s national identity and brain trust and, as such, necessitated protection from those who preferred to see it fall: from enemies who came from within and without; enemies who wanted to return to the days of old; from adversaries who wanted nothing more than the destruction of the new government and everything it stood for. And so within its castlelike walls, behind the guns of its military, beyond the stern eyes of its Federal Protective Service, the capital city of the world’s largest country contained the highest security anywhere on the continent.

Michael sat alone in the parlor, the metal lockbox on the coffee table before him. He looked at the lock. There was no key or any indication if one even existed.

Certain words had troubled Michael since Julian left. It had nothing to do with Kelley or Julian; it had everything to do with Genevieve. Julian said, “She is so much more than you know.” Michael didn’t know if those were the words of an embittered son or if they held even a modicum of truth. Her desperation in requesting that Michael steal the painting from Geneva, her mysterious death that turned out to be a ruse, all carried a context that was so contrary to her person, to the kind, simple woman he thought he knew. And now this lockbox before him: she had somehow found Michael’s father, delivered this to him, and was no doubt heading to Michael when she disappeared again. Julian was right. Genevieve was so much more than he realized, she truly was filled with secrets.

Somehow, Michael sensed that Julian knew his mother was alive, that she was out there somewhere. That Julian was the very thing Simon admitted he was protecting Genevieve from.

Michael arrived in Boston in search of his parents; now he was being blackmailed, bidden to do a job in an unfamiliar country, in a complex whose security was akin to the White House. The Kremlin was not only the historical and political seat of the Russian government, it was the repository of much of its fabled history. A storied history, some of which many would like erased from time. The place that held this so-called box, what Julian had called the Albero della Vita, that was the ultimate object of his desire and the deciding factor in the fate of Michael’s father.

As Michael played the events and demands of the last hour over in his mind, he continually came to the conclusion that Stephen Kelley would be lost and the blood of his death would cover Michael’s hands. Michael wondered whether Kelley was even worth saving. There was no bond between them, Kelley had no interest in Michael. He had never once tried to find him, to reach out to him. He had abandoned the son who was now his only hope. And if Michael decided to try, if he concluded that Kelley was worth it, the task of pulling off a job in such a highly secured setting was next to impossible. Without a map—the map Genevieve had him destroy—he not only lacked the location from which he had to steal, but he didn’t even know what he was looking for. Even if he wanted to take the job, the only outcome could be failure. And that failure would not only mean the death of his father; it would, no doubt, include everything from his rotting away in Siberia to Julian’s wrath and vengeance, the depths of which Michael could not fathom.

Michael had been faced with supreme obstacles before and had been able to snatch victory from certain defeat. But the complications laid out before him now seemed insurmountable. This was something beyond his reach. He briefly considered assembling whatever information he could find and turning it over to the authorities, even if it meant his certain arrest and return to prison.

Michael gathered himself and turned his attention back to the box before him, hoping that it would contain solutions to the problems he faced. Michael tucked the note from Genevieve in his pocket and looked at the complicated lock on the black case. He withdrew a brown billfold from his pocket, opened it, and laid his intricate tools upon the table before him.

The rich wood of the desk matched the book-lined cases and the coffered ceiling. Busch had never sat at such an elaborate piece of furniture in his life, surrounded by the rewards of wealth: dark Persian rugs, high-back leather chairs, thrones for the captains of their domain. But the richness of the library was lost on him as he stared at the computer screen before him. Julian Zivera wasn’t a man, he was an industry. He had his fingers in everything from finance to medicine but there was one overriding venture: religion and everything stemming from it. Zivera was the leader of God’s Truth, an amalgam of Christianity and science with a following exceeding half a million faithful germinated over a period of a mere twenty-five years. Founded by a Frenchman named Trepaunt, it was all left to his son-in-law, Julian, upon his death.

Julian and God’s Truth were based out of a cliffside monastery on the coast of Corsica. The twenty-five-thousand-acre compound consisted of research facilities, offices, and medical labs, all centered around his seat of operations. The castle-like structure had functioned as a monastery for nearly two hundred years; prior to that it was the summertime home of the ruling family, who had donated their castle to the church in 1767 to avoid having it fall into the hands of French royalty who purchased the Mediterranean island from the Genoese.