The Thieves of Faith (22 page)

But above all, what caught Michael’s eye was the enormous wall behind the memorial to the dead. It stood sixty feet high and was up to twenty feet thick. It ran for nearly a mile and a half with swallow-tailed battlements, interspersed with nineteen enormous towers, most of which were built at the end of the fifteenth century by Italian architects. Each tower was capped with a distinctive jade-green spire and crowned by either a ruby-red star or a golden flag. It was truly a fortress out of the past, one that had successfully fended off tens of thousands of ancient troops through countless battles, an impenetrable first line of defense that contained the politics and mysteries of Russia’s past, present, and future.

Peeking over the great walls, Michael could see the top of the Grand Kremlin Palace and the spires of the Cathedral of the Archangel. All part of a world that was foreign yet familiar. He was facing a heavily defended small city that possessed a modern level of security, complementing its ancient castle-like defenses. He was looking at one of the most guarded arenas in the world, a place that he would not only need to enter but penetrate to its very depths; for behind and below these walls was the golden box, the key to his father’s survival.

Michael looked about the open space around him—four city blocks in size—and briefly marveled at the site. Red Square was vibrant, metropolitan, nowhere near what he had pictured. The summer blue sky only managed to burnish the colorful world. It was as cosmopolitan as any city in western Europe. Michael had fallen victim to the black-and-white images of his youth and the rumors of oppression, not realizing that Russia had truly become a capitalist dream. The square was a wide open mall: Nestlé ice cream carts scattered about, peddlers selling balloons, tourists buying trinkets from street carts.

Though thousands of people, tourists and Russians alike, were milling about the square, Michael paid them no mind as he refocused on his sole purpose. He was memorizing his surroundings, learning the flow of the crowds, studying the structures before him. Because his time as a tourist here was short, his time as an observer had to be efficient.

Michael looked at his watch. 9:59. He reached in his jacket pocket and withdrew the cell phone. He fought to contain his anger as he hit the preprogrammed number.

“Glad you made it,” Zivera answered after the first ring. “Not as glad as your father but…Good luck.”

And the line went dead.

“Looking a little obvious there.” The voice was Russian, with a strong accent.

Michael turned to see a square, heavyset man with a slight paunch hanging over his belt. He was the proverbial bulldog of a man, five nine, two twenty, his body as wide at the waist as it was at the shoulder. His hair was too black: the mop of ebony locks couldn’t have been more unnatural. He wore horn-rim glasses with Coke-bottle lenses, his right eye milky with blindness. Everything about him was thick: his nose and lips, his cheeks, even his neck all combined in a face only a mother could love. As frightful as he looked, it all washed away with a perfect smile. “Nikolai Fetisov,” he said as he held out his meaty hand.

Michael shook his hand. “You sure I’m the one you’re looking for?”

Nikolai took out a picture, looked at it, held it out at arm’s length next to Michael’s face, his one good eye shifting from the picture to Michael and back. “You’re uglier in person.” He smiled and led the way down the middle of the square, walking with a slight shuffle.

Michael felt a severe case of dread trusting an unknown man like this as his contact in this foreign land. Michael looked about the square, at the faces of the people, wondering how many associates were watching this Fetisov’s back. He wasn’t fooled by the gregarious demeanor or the toothy smile; Michael didn’t need to see his dossier to know that, despite his appearance, he was more than dangerous.

“Where are we going?” Michael asked.

“We have an appointment.”

“With?”

“Relax,” Fetisov said in heavily accented English, “it’s nothing to worry about. I’m here to help.”

Michael had his doubts. “Zivera obviously hired you for a reason, what is it?”

“What, no American small talk?”

Michael shook his head.

Fetisov stopped in the middle of the square and faced Michael, his one good eye deadly serious. “I am what you call a man with connections.”

“Connections to what?”

Nikolai looked around at the people milling about, the police on their rounds, and finally at the enormous Kremlin walls. “Everything.”

Busch sat with Susan in the large backseat of a ZiL stretch limo, watching the flow of the Moskva River out of his window. They were parked on Ilyinska ulitsa. They had landed at a private airstrip just outside of Moscow. Busch wondered what it cost to pay off the Russian authorities; he and Michael hadn’t even left the plane when they received their passports back stamped and processed. It all was taken care of by Martin, who sat across from him now. The man might as well have been mute. Not a single word uttered on the flight or in the limo. Busch judged him to be around fifty-five. What little hair he possessed was perfectly groomed and had not yet begun to gray, but his tired eyes spoke volumes about his years. He was focused on a ledger, deep in thought, his fingers furiously working a calculator. Busch had tried to make small talk but the man not only failed to respond, he never looked up, fingers continuing to work the adding machine.

“What’s taking him so long?” Susan said impatiently.

Busch stretched out his arms and thrust out his chest, trying to work out the kinks from the flight. “Why don’t you go back to the hotel and let him be?”

“Don’t you start telling me what to do,” Susan snapped. “You’re here on my dime.” She grabbed the door handle.

“Look, Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas anymore, and you know the saying…”

She looked at him, perplexed, her hands up impatiently, begging the answer. “What?”

“When in Rome…stay in the safety of your limo.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” And she tore open the car door and stepped out.

Busch watched amazed as the door slammed behind her. Her business associate didn’t even bother looking up; he went about his work as if she were still in the car.

“Is she always like this?” Busch asked Martin. Not that he expected a response. Busch got out his side of the car and watched as Susan stormed off toward Red Square. “And we brought her because…?” he asked himself before taking up her pursuit.

The crowds were growing in Red Square: it looked to be at least two thousand people scattered about, packs bunching up, stragglers on the outskirts. All heading in or out of the open area. Busch was oblivious to his grand surroundings as he tried to keep an eye on Susan, his heart beginning to race as he chased after the naïve woman who was unaccustomed to not being in control. Busch was beginning to lose sight of her in the crowds and broke into a jog as she speed-walked toward St. Basil’s.

One hundred yards ahead, Busch saw Michael walking out of the square with a thick Russian at his side. Busch slowed his pace in relief as he saw Susan approach them.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, an arm emerged from the crowd, grabbing Susan by the arm and pulling her into the masses.

Busch broke into a sprint, dashing to where she had just been. He spun around and around. There were people everywhere, all oblivious to his searching eye. Busch finally looked down and there on the ground was Susan’s diamond watch; he picked it up, amazed that someone hadn’t snatched it in the two seconds it lay there in the middle of Red Square. He frantically looked about, squinting, hoping to catch a glimpse of her before she was dragged away to be lost forever.

And like that, she was gone.

The bearded man stood off to the side, watching as the-tourists passed through the Kremlin gates. He took comfort in the feel of the small Glock resting against the small of his back. There was no need to hold the pistol like a security blanket. He could draw faster than anyone; he would have made a perfect old west lawman.

He was amazed at the volume of people clamoring to get over the bridge and into the Russian capital. It had truly grown as a destination over the last fifteen years, standing in sharp contrast to the seventy-five years that people avoided it like the plague, afraid that they might only pass over the bridge once, never to return from inside the enormous brick walls.

The man was tall, his dark hair long, running over the collar of his white polo shirt. He had arrived yesterday, his alias secure enough to afford him a wave-through at customs. He came in empty-handed but had immediately gone shopping. He had picked up six Heckler & Koch PDWs, six Glock pistols, enough ammo to stage a war. Six smoke bombs with remote timers, six incendiary bombs for the unexpected, and twenty pounds of Semtex. The trunk of his Mercedes could barely close.

He regretted killing the middle-aged Russian mafioso who seemed to run a Wal-Mart of weapons, but the man brought it on himself. After having paid the agreed-upon price, the Russian tried to blackmail him with the threat of calling the police if he didn’t double the day’s take. When the bearded man refused, the Russian tried to pull a gun but was dead before his finger neared the trigger.

And so the bearded man watched the short, bulky Russian limp through the archway with the American. He knew where they were going and what they were doing. And when the time came he would be ready, no matter what it took, no matter how many people died. He had two things to do and nothing could stop him…

Susan sat in the rear seat of a Mercedes limousine, the windows so smoked that she couldn’t see outside. Across from her sat the assailant who had forced her at gunpoint into his car. He hadn’t said a word even as she screamed at him in fury. She knew she should be scared, even terrified, but the rage running through her only made her want to beat the man in front of her. He was no more than twenty, his acne scars still fresh. There was a coldness in his young eyes; he placed no value on life or his own mortality. She wondered if he had any aspirations beyond tomorrow. Russian mafia, she concluded: slicked-back blond hair, an Armani sport coat, and gaudy thick gold jewelry. She couldn’t understand why they all aspired to look like disco-era mafiosos from Brooklyn.

“People are looking for me,” Susan said.

But he remained silent as he stared at her stone-faced.

“The U.S. consulate will be—”

A sharp ring cut her short. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “Oa,” he said, and that was all he said as he nodded his head and grunted affirmatives into his phone. After thirty seconds, he finally closed it.

He knocked on the partition and mumbled something in Russian to the driver.

Susan looked at him. “Where are you taking me?”

He continued to stare at her.

“I demand to know where we are going.”

And the young man smiled. “Someone wishes to see you,” he said, his English unexpectedly good.

“Who…?” Susan asked, surprised that he finally answered her.

“Someone in the Kremlin.”

And the fear that Susan had held at bay so well finally flooded in.