The Thieves of Faith (19 page)

“No offense, Susan, but you are the least qualified for this. I really think you should bring some help,” the bald man said. “You’ve never been to Russia. Things work much differently there.”

“Martin, as long as you’re coming, that’s all the help I’ll need.”

Martin turned to Michael. His face was worn, there were no smile lines, no sign that this man had ever laughed in his life. “If any harm comes to Ms. Newman or Mr. Kelley, this will be the last time you walk the free ground of this country.”

Michael didn’t know if he was referring to his arrest or murder, but he could read it in the man’s eyes: there was an absolute certainty to the threat.

“Thank you, Martin.” Susan dismissed him as he stepped into the cockpit.

“Martin has worked with Stephen for thirty years, his loyalty borders on a psychosis.” Susan smiled. And it was the first smile Michael saw from her.

The jet engines wound up into a high-pitched scream, and the aircraft lurched forward as the two enormous hangar doors parted, revealing the open airstrip before them. Michael felt a momentary fear race through his blood. He was going to be on his own. Susan would provide no assistance beyond financial resources. He usually liked to work alone, but faced with such a monumental task that held his father’s life in the balance, he wished for help. If he failed, the consequences would be unimaginable. Michael looked out the window wondering if he would make it back.

The plane rolled out of the hangar, its ground crew wrapping up their tools as the giant doors began to close. The private hangar was set off beyond the main hustle and bustle of Logan Airport. Michael watched as planes of all sizes took off in the distance. It would be a few minutes down the causeway to enter the queue. As the plane began to taxi out along the tarmac, a yellow Corvette came racing through the gate of the private hangar area, shortcutting into the hangar, and exploded out the nearly closed doors onto the tarmac, racing the jet.

The Vette sped ahead and screeched into a side skid, coming to halt twenty yards ahead of the jet. Busch leapt out of the car, a bag over his shoulder, his long blond hair blowing in the breeze, and stuck out his thumb, hitching a ride.

Chapter 19

S
ergei Raechen lay in his bed in Alexandria,
Virginia, his labored breathing straining his six-year-old lungs. Vera Bronshenko wiped his forehead and tucked him in. She smiled at him deeply with a glint in her eye, her old wrinkled face filled with warmth. “Rest now, my child. Daddy will be home soon.”

Sergei closed his eyes, drifting back into a merciful slumber.

Vera’s smile dissolved as she watched her grandson fall back to sleep. She couldn’t go through this again. It was déjà vu. Not four years earlier, she had tended to her daughter, Janalise, in the same fashion, only to watch her wither and die. And the cruel hand of fate did not let the disease skip a generation. It had emerged five months ago, pulling the once-vibrant child into a lethargic state, his body wracked with pain as he slowly deteriorated from the inside. The doctors had no name for the illness, let alone a cure. They were only sure of one thing: this was the same condition that had killed young Sergei’s mother.

Vera walked out of the boy’s room and stepped onto the back porch, her body weak from anguish and lack of sleep. She looked at the backyard, at Sergei’s swing set and trampoline, both of which had sat idle since he was taken ill. Her son-in-law’s home was upscale, in an exclusive suburb of Washington. It was where her daughter had dreamed of living and where they had settled when her son-in-law retired from the Russian Embassy. She was surrounded with all the trappings of wealth, the American dream that she never dared dream of back in Kiev. But to Vera it was all a curse. The rewards of American hard work were but a mocking stare as she was being forced to watch her family die around her. She cursed God for not striking her down instead of her daughter or her grandson. It was a cruel twist of fate; she was vigorous, strong, and healthy in her later years, yet she had no one to share them with. And now she was alone in this big house, Sergei’s father having run off to Russia, another foolhardy journey in search of a miracle cure. He had said that the Russian doctors were confident they could help Sergei, but they needed Raechen’s expertise one last time.

Vera had watched as her son-in-law, Ilya, crumbled with grief at the condition of his son. He had never gotten over the death of his wife, but took comfort in the fact that she lived on in Sergei. Now the last thing he loved was being torn from him. He had searched high and low for a cure, he spoke to every doctor in every clinic he could find throughout the world, but they only responded with sympathy and medical curiosity at the unknown disease that was wasting his child. Ilya had turned to homeopathic medicine, dietary modifications, even prayer, but all without success. And so when the phone call came with the promise of a cure, Ilya did not question his employers. For they had offered hope, something that was waning in Ilya along with his son’s life. Ilya had raced off in the middle of the night and hadn’t been back for five days now. He had remained in touch and promised to be home soon.

And while Vera had felt a touch of hope and was holding out for a miracle, it was soon replaced by fear. Whatever Ilya was being asked to do, she knew it would involve the darkest of deeds. She knew what her son-in-law had been before he had retired from the Russian government. She knew what he was capable of. He specialized in the unspoken conduct of governments, the acts committed for the homeland, unspeakable and damning to the soul. And while Ilya had earlier been motivated by love of his country and, even more so, the love of money, this time he had a far greater incentive. He was motivated by his love for his son. Vera knew he wouldn’t fail, no matter the obstacles before him. Ilya was a man without a soul, having sacrificed it in favor of his KGB directives decades ago. He was a man who had killed for his country; she could only imagine what he would do for his child.

Before turning around to go back in the house, she looked at the swing set, picturing young Sergei upon it, and she thought maybe, just maybe, it would come to pass. She prayed that Ilya’s employers would deliver on their promise. And as she opened the door, she said one last prayer: God save whoever got in Raechen’s way.

Chapter 20

T
here wasn’t a cloud in the sky as the jet
headed out over the Atlantic Ocean. They had quickly climbed to thirty-seven thousand feet without the slightest bit of turbulence; if Busch hadn’t seen the ocean below he would have thought he was sitting in his recliner above the bar. He marveled at his surroundings. It appeared no cost was spared to provide the finest of luxuries to the passengers. Plasma TV screens, individual air phones in every seat, a fully stocked galley, and every type of entertainment at each passenger’s beck and call. Not to mention the elegant conference table and couches that would have looked more natural in a men’s club on Fifth Avenue.

“Jeannie is going to have a fit,” Michael said from his large leather chair.

“No, she’s not,” Busch responded. He was sitting directly across from Michael, his chair reclined halfway back.

“Yes, she is, and she is going to blame me…again.”

“She is not going to have a fit…or at least another fit. The worst is over—she
already
ripped me apart.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m glad she ranted and raved. I’m used to it. It’s the silent treatment that’s worse. That’s when I know she’s really upset. Besides, what could she say? Once I explained the situation with your newly found father being kidnapped…”

Michael looked at Busch; he was at a loss for words, concerned that Busch had told Jeannie the truth. After all, this was supposed to be a secret.

“I know what would have happened: you would get over there, get yourself in a world of hurt, and need my help. Then I would have to jump on a plane, ride in a coach seat, no plasma screen TV, no leather recliner,”—he indicated his surroundings—“and come find your sorry ass to pull it out of the fire. So I figured…” Busch paused a moment, leaned forward, his elbows resting upon his knees, and looked directly at Michael. His jovial self vanished, replaced with a serious look. “We save your dad together or we don’t do it at all.”

Michael looked at him, nodded, and smiled.

Susan walked up the aisle toward them.

“Besides,” Busch continued, glancing Susan’s way, “who’s going to referee you and Miss Snap-a-Fit?”

“What do you mean by that?” Susan glared at Busch.

Busch rose from his seat, rising to his full six foot four height, his blond hair skimming the ceiling, and smiled down at her. “Nothing.”

Busch walked toward the back of the plane and into the galley, astounded by the stock of food and beverages. Drinks of every taste and style, food ranging from steak and pasta to candy and cake. Bypassing all of it, he opened up the bar, poured himself a fancy-looking Scotch, the name of which he had never heard before, and grabbed four sandwiches off a silver platter. As he turned to go back to his seat, he came face-to-face with Susan.

“Help yourself,” she said as she looked at his overflowing handful of food.

“Thanks.” Busch smiled back.

“Look, this is a nine-hour flight, I was hoping we would get off to a better start,” she said with her hand on her hip.

“I’m sorry,” Busch said. “I didn’t mean anything by Miss Snap-a-Fit.”

She awkwardly tried to squeeze by his large frame and as she did—

“My condolences,” Busch said.

She looked at him questioningly.

“On the loss of your husband,” Busch said in all sincerity, his head bowed.

Susan looked up at him, surprised at the comment. It took the anger out of her. “Thanks,” she said as she poured herself a glass of red wine.

“Just so you know, that guy sitting up there”—Busch nodded his head toward the front of the plane, looking Michael’s way—“The one you accused of having no idea what it is like to lose someone…He lost someone.”

Susan’s expression softened.

“Almost a year ago. He watched her steady decline, watched her slowly die.” Busch finally looked back at her; he pursed his lips, waited a moment, and then headed back toward the front of the plane, leaving Susan to her thoughts.

Busch stood over Michael. “You sure I can’t get you anything?”

Michael looked at Busch’s handful of sandwiches and laughed. “No, I’m good. What were you and Queen Chill chatting about?”

“Just the weather,” Busch said as he sat in the leather lounger, happy that someone had designed an airplane seat able to accommodate his body so comfortably. He tucked his drink in the armrest cup holder and inhaled his sandwiches.

“I’ll bet she likes her weather cold and rainy,” Michael said.

Busch turned his head and looked back at her. “I don’t know. Sometimes the people who scream the loudest are the ones who are the most scared. They hide behind a facade of steel and anger.”

“Aren’t we suddenly sympathetic,” Michael said with raised eyebrows.

“No, just experienced.” Busch looked at Michael, letting his point sink in to his friend. He reclined his leather chair all the way and was asleep before Michael had a chance to ask him who was covering his bar back at home.

Susan took a seat in the leather chair next to Michael. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Michael said as he looked out the circular window down over the vast ocean.

“We’ll be landing in about eight hours.”

“What time is it now?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know.”

Michael looked at the watch on her wrist. It was a Patek Philippe, small diamonds around the scratched face.

“It doesn’t work,” she said as she saw where his eyes were trained.