The Thieves of Faith (29 page)

“I didn’t like that much, either,” Michael said as he rubbed his neck. He shut the elevator panel, looked about the tight confines of the room, and took one last look at the shaft above him, at the elevator door that stood between him and Genevieve. The door that was obstructed by the deep red security barrier.

“I get the impression that Zivera has him over a barrel the same way he has you.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same but…something tells me he wouldn’t hesitate a minute to take us both out once we get what we came for.”

“Then we don’t let him get near what we came for,” Busch said as he smiled at Michael.

The three men crawled up the shaft tunnel that ran beyond the subterranean medical facility, their crash-helmet lights leading the way. Busch had secured the grille in place with a single screw and bent the metal ductwork back in place. They followed the orange paint trail that Michael had sprayed. What took them an hour on the way in was only ten minutes on the way back out. Michael left several cans of gray spray paint at their respective operation points to be used during their final departure to cover their tracks, to erase their trail.

“All right,” Michael said, looking around the grotto at the small meandering rivers, at the dark tunnels where the waterway exited. “We have to be back here by five a.m.”

“Which tunnel are we going out?”

Michael turned and pointed at the third from the left. He pulled three masks and three pony bottles from his bag and passed one of each to Nikolai and Busch. Without a word each put on a mask and held tight to the small regulator on an air bottle. Michael sealed up his bag, took one last look around the cavern, and jumped in the water.

He swam the twenty yards across the moat and entered the third tunnel to the left. The light from Michael’s helmet lit up the water tunnel for twenty yards before it veered off to the left. Michael was amazed that something built hundreds of years earlier was able to stand the test of time when things back home didn’t last more than twenty years. He looked ahead and saw nothing but the heads of two rats as they swam to get out of his light. Five yards back Busch and Nikolai brought up the rear. Michael began to feel the tug of a current; it was minimal but it pulled him along just the same. As he rounded the corner, he saw that the tunnel ran another twenty yards before the ceiling began to angle down until it finally merged with the water. And the current was stronger here. Michael kicked against it, trying to gauge its strength, but his actions did nothing. He just kept floating closer and closer to where the water and the ceiling met. Behind him, Busch and Nikolai rode side by side. Michael wasn’t sure if they were beginning to bond or if Busch was just being his overprotective self, not letting Nikolai out of his sight.

And when Michael turned back he saw the ceiling, seeming to fall upon him as it angled downward. Michael waited until the last minute, shoved the pony bottle in his mouth, and went under. The helmet upon his head remained snug as its light cast silt-filled rays down the stream. There was no letting up now. The current continued to grow and Michael noted the tunnel falling off into an angle just sharp enough to hold off anyone trying to climb up from the bottom. As Michael bounced off the pipe’s walls, he felt the sliminess and realized there was no grip if he wanted to delay his departure from this forgotten mystery. He rode the current, speeding along, doing everything in his power not to crash into the wall. He used his feet to guide him and push off any impending corner. Finally, he tumbled and squirted out into an open pool, but he didn’t linger as he felt himself suddenly sucked under again, this time into a dark tunnel that spat him out into the predawn waters of the Moskva River.

Michael looked back to see the Kremlin sitting high on the hill, the Great Kremlin Palace peering over the sixty-foot walls. The outer world was just beginning to wake, cars driving by the citadel, unaware of the world that was hidden beneath their great architectural heritage.

Suddenly, Busch and Fetisov bobbed to the surface beside him.

Fetisov was shaken up, coughing, gasping for air. “Are you out of your American mind?”

“I thought you Russians were supposed to be tough,” Busch said as he began swimming toward shore.

“I lost my air bottle,” Fetisov said defensively. He swam up next to Michael. “You sure you can do this?”

Michael looked at Fetisov and nodded, his confidence thoroughly projected to Fetisov who swam off infected by Michael’s optimism.

Michael watched Busch and the Russian swim ahead of him. After seeing the Kremlin underworld, after inspecting where they needed to go and digesting what they needed to do, Michael looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. He wanted to remember this moment, the blue sky above, the fresh air filling his lungs, for now that he knew what truly lay ahead, he thought this might be the last taste of freedom he would ever have.

Chapter 29

S
tephen Kelley changed into a pair of jeans and
a white oxford shirt that he found in the closet of the suite where he was being held. He was not surprised to find that the clothes fit him perfectly. He walked into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed water on his face. He leaned on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t thought on it, but as he looked at himself, he couldn’t help seeing Michael: the blue eyes, the strong chin, the wide shoulders. They were more alike than Stephen had realized. There was no doubt they were father and son.

The guilt that Stephen had felt over the years once again filled his heart. Though Michael seemed unaffected by being put up for adoption, it didn’t negate Stephen’s feeling that he had failed his son, a feeling he spent his life trying to overcome.

After burying his young wife and giving up Michael, Stephen submerged himself in his job and his schoolwork, barely keeping his head above water. He vowed that if he was ever to be lucky enough to fall in love again he would wait before having children; he refused to face an economic abyss again that would burden those he cared about. He graduated from Boston College with honors and headed right to Yale Law School, this time on a scholarship, where he was second in his class. The Boston DA’s office was only supposed to be a layover on his way to corporate life but the allure of justice was too enticing for him to escape. He worked his way up handling all types of criminal matters on behalf of the city. Before he knew it, he found himself as the DA of the city of Boston. Though he chose to only hold the office for one term, he had left his mark as one of the most successful prosecutors in the city’s history with a higher rate of conviction than any of his predecessors. His task forces shut down drug operations, gambling, prostitution, and burglary rings. He was credited with reducing crime and making the city a safer place for all of its residents.

After four years, he left the public sector and was offered several prestigious partnerships in some of the city’s best law firms. But he had other plans. He started his own firm and built it into a powerhouse, hiring the best young minds, sparing no expense to satisfy his clients. His was the only name on the door. There was no need for partners. His reputation alone won contracts and retainers far greater than any of the reputed, multi-named competition. He had never even considered a partner until a few years earlier. And that was when his son Peter joined the firm.

Kelley & Kelley was a partnership in memorial. A change of name to revere the son he lost. Peter was a bright young man in his own right, who swelled Stephen with pride. And Peter never took advantage of his name, achieving success—and respect—through long nights of honest hard work, an easy manner, and a charitable demeanor. He became that rare attorney everyone liked.

Peter never knew he was not the firstborn son, he never knew he had a half brother. He and Michael were siblings unaware of each other, who stood in stark contrast in their respective careers. And though Michael lived on the other side of the law, Stephen knew—through his detached voyeurism and his heart—the label of criminal was far too harsh and judgmental. Michael was a good person, a good man, and a good husband, and although Stephen knew he did the right thing in giving up Michael, he had carried the guilt with him every day of his life.

Two intelligent men, two sons, two brothers: Stephen wondered who would have prevailed if they had been pitted against each other.

But as he wandered back out on the seaside balcony, Stephen knew that when it came down to saving his life, there was no question which son was better prepared.

Chapter 30

T
he noonday sun blazed through the air-conditioned
room of the hotel suite, lighting up the well-appointed living room. It was a mix of European, Russian, and American furniture: thick and comfortable sofas, elegant chairs that would surely break if Busch was to sit in them, and antiques acquired from around the continent. Vases overflowing with fresh-cut flowers adorned the tables throughout the room, the blooms’ subtle odor filling the air. The windows were beginning to fog as the abnormal temperature climbed into the nineties and the heavy humidity condensed on the cool glass.

Nikolai walked out of the kitchen and threw Michael and Busch each a bottle of Budweiser. “Kinda makes it like home, huh?” Nikolai said in his heavy Russian accent.

Busch cracked his open and drew a long sip. “If I close my eyes and hold my nose, maybe.”

Nikolai turned to Michael. “Sorry about the neck.”

Michael looked at him, staring into his one good eye, but said nothing.

“It’s just…my niece. Lexie’s little sister.” Fetisov paused and looked away. “We Russians thought ourselves so great, so superior, and yet when Chernobyl melted down we lied to the world instead of welcoming its help. Our national pride was more important than our people. My sister was pregnant at the time. Now Ylena, such an innocent, she is paying the price for our pride. She is sick, they can’t even figure why. Zivera promised that he could help her, he could make her better. He has worked miracles before and said if I saw to your success, his doctors would work miracles for my niece. If I helped you get this job done.” He finally turned back to Michael. “I can’t fail her.”

Michael looked at Busch, sharing an unspoken moment before turning back to the Russian. “You said you could get anything on a moment’s notice.” Michael passed Fetisov a sheet of paper. Michael had drawn it up and whittled it down to the twenty essential items he would need come tomorrow morning.

Nikolai studied the list, nodding as he read.

“The air tanks have to be full,” Michael said. “And make sure the batteries in the helmet lights are new.”

“Okay. I can do this, but who are the guns for?” Nikolai looked up.

“I don’t really have a taste for guns, I’m not figuring to run into anyone. But it’s better not to be caught off guard.”

Nikolai turned to Busch. “You know how to use one?”

Busch smiled, looking from Michael to Nikolai. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Not all cops can shoot,” Nikolai said, trying to backpedal his statement.

“Not all Russians drink vodka.” Busch raised his beer to Nikolai.

Nikolai studied the list. “What is an induction field antenna?”

“It’s used by miners. It allows low-frequency radio waves to pass through rock. It’s not absolutely necessary, just a precaution. Think you could scrounge one up?”

Nikolai folded up the list, tucked it in his pocket, and turned to Michael. “This will take some doing but I’ll get you what you need.”

“How long will you be?”

“Two, maybe three hours.” Nikolai headed for the door but then turned back to Busch. “Actually, all Russians do drink vodka,” Nikolai said with a serious eye, sending the insult at Busch before vanishing out the door.