The Thieves of Faith (35 page)

Michael pulled out a small drill and made short order of the lock plate. The internal gears were large and, surprisingly, showed little signs of rust. He pulled an eighteen-inch crowbar from his bag and placed it in the center gear. He tried to turn it but it wouldn’t budge; he put all of his weight into it and still nothing. He turned to Susan. She smiled, walked over, and placed her hands next to his. They both leaned into it and, very slowly the gears cried in protest. The bar started to move as the entire door creaked, the mechanism moving now until it slammed home. Michael placed the bar on the ground and pulled the large ring handle. The door slowly opened. A waft of stale air flowed out of the room. Michael noted that the seal on the door was thick, made out of some kind of tar-like substance obviously used for an airtight barrier. As the door swung fully open, Michael shined his light in the room and his breath caught in his throat. Susan followed his line of sight and nearly lost her footing as she whispered, “Oh, my God.”

Chapter 37

T
here were thirty of them, mostly doctors,
male and female, along with a handful of politicos and business-suit executives, slick and capitalistic in comparison to their intellectual counterparts: a true representation of modern medicine. Groups of ten exited the freight elevator in two-minute shifts, the single elevator running the ten-story round-trip in three minutes like a painfully slow conveyor belt shuttling the VIP contingent from topside. They all lingered in the reception area, taking advantage of the early morning spread of fresh piroshkis, fruit, and black coffee.

Dr. Skovokov and his team mingled with the group. All of them clamored for his attention, hoping to curry favor from the man who held the future of Russia’s renewed prominence and leadership in the field of medicine. He was like a rock star who has been rediscovered after a mysterious fifteen-year absence from the stage. It was a reunion of the powers of old with the younger generation who ached for recognition in a world where they had been relegated to a distant second place.

A lone doctor stood off to the side, clutching a medium-sized duffel bag, ignoring the conversation around him. He seemed to be studying the faces of everyone. His large frame and trim physique stood in sharp contrast to the doughy medical-field bodies around him. And his hands were rough and strong, not the delicate hands of a surgeon, not the hands of someone obsessed with intellectual pursuits or counting money. Busch remained within the shadows behind the a/c grate as he studied him. To the other Russians he was just another doctor, but to Busch, to the former cop in him, he was a threat. This man wasn’t here for scholarly advancement or intellectual curiosity.

Busch’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft chime. The anxious crowd began moving toward the viewing theater. They all smiled and nodded to Skovokov, wishing him well as if he was about to hit the stage. The group moved en masse into the theater that sat behind the large window, looking out over the operating room, quickly taking their seats with hushed voices so as not to disturb the artist. The heavy metal fire door closed behind them with a loud clang and they all fell silent with anticipation.

Skovokov’s team huddled about him in the foyer, their voices tinged with excitement, taking their last-minute instructions. And then, as if on cue, the elevator door opened. Two medical technicians flanked a gurney where the body of Genevieve Zivera lay. Busch’s breath was taken away as he saw the woman’s near-lifeless form. No one pitied her, they only looked upon her with greed, a product to be exploited. It took everything in his being to contain his rage at the rape of her soul.

The technicians rolled her out of the elevator and down the hall toward the operating theater. Busch watched from behind the ventilation grate as the room emptied and became still. After a moment, the two medical technicians came back, entered the elevator, and disappeared behind the closing doors.

Busch silently removed the a/c grate and pulled it back into their lair. He hopped down into the reception area and froze, listening, looking about. He adjusted his white lab coat, smoothing it out. No one would ever truly believe he was a doctor, but that didn’t concern him; he just needed to look the part long enough to draw his weapon. He turned back to Nikolai, who came through the opening right behind him, dressed in a similar knee-length doctor’s coat. Busch reached back through the hole and withdrew a large iron cross composed of two forty-two-inch rods welded together. Without a word, he headed down the hall. He passed the closed entrance to the operating room and continued on to the theater. He quietly lifted the fifty-pound cross and placed it up against the doorway to the theater. At the cross’s intersection were two clamps which Busch quickly attached to the door handle, securing it to his large makeshift dead bolt. With four quick turns of the crank at the center of the cross, he tightened up the contraption until it was snug against the doorframe and held tight to the doorknob. Its design could only be compromised from the outside, as it securely closed the inward-opening door. No one would be leaving the operating theater until Busch and Nikolai decided they could. Busch took off his lab coat, stuffed it against the base of the door, and turned back down the hall to find Nikolai crawling out of the elevator pit door.

“Did you shut it down?”

He nodded. “This party is now closed. Nobody is getting in or out of this hole without our blessing.”

“Let’s get this over with before they touch her,” Busch insisted.

They both went down the hall and drew their guns. Though there was no other way down here, Busch kept checking their backs; he didn’t know why, but he had an overwhelming feeling of disaster lurking in the corner of his mind. He didn’t ignore it; his instincts had served him well for years.

They arrived at the operating room and flanked the door. Nikolai pulled out a remote switch and held it out. “You ready?”

Busch nodded. “I think one of the doctors may be a plant. He looked too rough to be down here.”

Nikolai laid his left thumb on the button. “Security guard?”

“Could be worse than that.”

“Is he in the theater or the lab?”

“I believe he is in the theater.”

“If he decides to be the hero, I have the solutions.” Nikolai held a remote control in his left hand and in his right a large pistol.

Without another thought, Nikolai pushed the button. There was a low rumbling followed by a scream and then another scream until they could hear the muffled panic coming from within. And then the door to the theater started to uselessly shake; the iron rods held, no one would be getting out, though that didn’t stop their constant assault on the door.

Nikolai checked his gun, chambered a round, and looked at Busch.

Busch followed suit, raising his gun before him in a double grip, nodded…and kicked in the operating-room door.

Chapter 38

M
ichael and Susan were looking back in time,
back through history. The room was a glorious example of a long lost age, when feudal lords existed alongside Renaissance artists, philosophers, and thinkers, whose labors continued to influence the world even to this day.

The vast space stretched seventy-five feet and was twenty feet in width. The ceiling was much lower than Michael had imagined it to be, seven feet at most. Like everything else he had seen, it was made of granite and red brick but this room was far more elaborate than what they had seen up to now. The walls were filled with elegant bookshelves, gold leaf inlaid with precious jewels, each shelf uniquely crafted by artists. The shelves were filled not only with books but with tubes and parchments. As Michael looked closer, he realized that he was looking at a literal recording of history, painstakingly compiled and forever hidden.

He pulled a book from its shelf, his curiosity exceeding any thoughts of preservation. It was a Bible, hand printed, its colors still magnificent. He placed it back on the shelf and moved down to the parchments. Written on papyrus, they were dry and variously labeled in Greek, Aramaic, Latin, and Russian. A testament to their ownership through time. He noted parchments in Latin labeled “Alexandria,” not surprised that documents from the greatest library ever lost would show up here. After all, possessing a heritage that harkened back to the great Macedonian conqueror, the Byzantium Liberia probably possessed many of history’s lost mysteries. Michael realized that this was not just the Byzantium library of legend, whisked off to Russia: it contained pieces from the library at Alexandria, the library at Hadrian, and even the Chinese Imperial Library in the Forbidden City. Books and parchments, collected and stolen in an age where the accumulation of knowledge was truly a way to power.

In the center of the room were a series of chairs and couches, dust-covered but showing no signs of deterioration. They were substantial, nothing resembling the delicateness of French antiques that might have appealed to Louis XIV. Covered in elaborate designs of stitched red velvet with silken stripes of green, they were warm and inviting. Large heavy tables made of cedar were scattered about; they seemed more suitable for a hunting lodge than a library, but they echoed their time and location. The room was surprisingly dry—the tar door seals doing their job—which helped to preserve the contents. But for the dust and the smell of stale air, the elegant room was as new as the day it was constructed.

“This is incredible,” Susan said, drawn more to the elegantly designed shelves than their contents. “Do you know what this room is worth?” She continued walking around, stopping as she found intricate pieces formed from gold and silver, cups, small statues, ceremonial swords on display racks.

“We don’t have time,” Michael said as he walked toward the door.

“But…” Susan was overwhelmed at her surroundings.

“Remember why we are here,” Michael reminded her.

She took one last look at the room and reluctantly followed him out. He closed the door behind them and retightened the lock.

“Why are you bothering with the lock?”

“That room is airtight and this door needs to be completely sealed to preserve its contents. It should remain undamaged until someone else finds this place.”

Michael walked sixty feet down the dark hallway and came to another door. They both immediately noticed the lock plate on the floor.

“Lexie,” Susan said with fearful eyes.

Michael tilted his head. “Yeah.” He pulled open the door and shined his light in. It was a lounge half the size of the library, filled with more elegant furniture: high-back purple velvet chairs, armoires, and gilded mirrors. Scores of enormous tapestries covered the walls, giving the room a whisper quality, without echoes or reverberation. Depicting royalty clothed in heavy furs, upon horseback, hunters standing over their prey, they told the story of the ancient north, a world where brutality coexisted with the mannered world of the aristocracy.

Michael quickly closed the door and headed farther down the dark hallway, coming to the third and final door. It, too, lacked a lock plate.

“I don’t understand,” Susan said. “How do you know that the box is not in one of those rooms? What kind of room are we looking for?”

Michael opened the final door, pointed his flashlight inside, and turned back to Susan. “This kind of room.”

Susan looked in, her face frozen in awe. The other two rooms, while priceless, were but a fraction of what she was looking at now.

“This is exactly what we are looking for,” Michael said.