The Thieves of Faith (40 page)

Through the windshield, they could see the ambulance with Genevieve pulling out, the two-toned horn reverberating through the enormous garage.

Fetisov looked at Busch and smiled. He took off his thick glasses and, to Busch’s shock, removed the mop of unnatural black hair to reveal a severe crew cut. His appearance was entirely different: his head was a like a slab of granite, covered in a bristle of gray hair. Busch half expected him to remove a milky contact lens from his bad eye, but that was not part of the disguise.

Fetisov rolled down the window and the demeanor of the troops turned from aggressive superiority to submissive fear. The entire group of twenty came to attention and snapped their arms up in a unison salute. The lead soldier began speaking in quick, clipped Russian.

And to Busch’s surprise, Nikolai began speaking back as if they knew each other.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Busch said.

Nikolai turned to Busch.

“General or colonel?”

Nikolai smiled. “General.” He rolled up the window and hit the gas. The jeep tires screeched as Nikolai raced out of the garage.

Michael sat in the car, holding tight to the wheel, revving the engine, waiting to give chase to the ambulance that would be pulling out at any minute. He stared at the still-lingering exhaust trail left by the twenty-year-old cab; Martin wasted no time in getting Susan out of the area. Michael was thankful for his presence, he was truly a resourceful man with only Susan’s best interest at heart.

The heavy wooden gates before Michael began to swing open, slowly, as if inhaling, and then, without warning, an ambulance exploded out of the gate, its tires screeching on the roadway.

Michael hit the gas of the ZiL and raced off behind the ambulance. The emergency vehicle, its red and blue lights flashing, its siren crying out, parted the traffic like a wedge along its route, weaving in between cars, riding the shoulder, and hopping back on the roadway. Michael stayed two car lengths back, his car mimicking every swerve and brake of the ambulance ahead, already flying at eighty mphs. Michael was surprised that there were no cars escorting the vehicle, riding backup to take out pursuers like Michael. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be met with resistance; Michael remained alert, waiting for a hail of bullets to erupt from the ambulance window at any second.

Someone had gotten the jump on Busch and Nikolai; Michael couldn’t imagine who could have penetrated the Kremlin and made off with Genevieve. His thoughts were a jumble as he pondered who else was after her: it could be anyone. He couldn’t imagine the terror, the confusion she was feeling, her mind surely on the verge of a breakdown as she was physically hijacked at the moment she was to be saved.

Michael glanced in the rearview mirror, not for police, not for Kremlin guards, but for Busch and Fetisov, wondering why they had yet to join the chase.

Michael was thankful that he had left Susan behind. He had already exposed her to too much danger. And as much as he wanted to deny it, he realized he was starting to care about her. As much as she pissed him off, there was something about her that tugged at his heart. Michael was seeing Susan in a far different light. He initially judged her a coarse woman, guarded to the point of impenetrability; but he found that deep down, she was tender and vulnerable. He felt his heart skip a beat when he thought of her and maybe, if he was lucky and he survived the ordeals ahead of him, he would see her again, safe from this mess.

He was glad she wasn’t with him now, though, as he raced through the unfamiliar streets of Moscow, his destination uncertain. Susan would distract him and he couldn’t afford to be bothered by her dark eyes right now. His decisions needed to remain unquestioned by others; his attention focused and acute.

Michael remained glued to the rear of the ambulance as they headed up Pilonosky ulitsa. He gripped the wheel even tighter as they made a sharp left onto Magorskya prospekt. The driver of the ambulance had to be aware of his tail by now, yet there was no evidence that he was doing anything to shake Michael, to stop him.

The traffic flow in early morning Moscow began growing congested with rush hour. Michael was thankful for the increasing density as it seemed to slow his quarry just a bit. It had been two minutes and Michael had yet to hear from Busch or Nikolai. He prayed that they hadn’t been caught within the Kremlin; the punishment would be swift and nothing short of death. Michael was suddenly filled with guilt. His decision to risk two simultaneous thefts had forced Nikolai and Busch to pull a job they were unprepared to complete. It was a mistake, one that they were now paying for. Michael should have gone in alone, rescued Genevieve, and ventured back later for the box. In hindsight, it was foolish and desperate.

The radio in his pocket startled him as it squeaked to life. “Where are you?” Busch’s voice called.

Michael grabbed the radio as he gripped the wheel with one hand. The relief Busch’s voice brought him was so overwhelming that he almost lost the ambulance as he whizzed by several glass towers. Michael pressed the radio’s button. “Shit, I don’t know,” he finally shouted. “I just passed three large glass buildings.”

“Are you on Puhnik?” Nikolai’s voice cut in.

Michael looked around again, but the signs were in unintelligible Cyrillic. “Are you kidding me? I have no idea.” Michael’s voice was boiling with frustration.

“You drive, let Susan navigate.”

“I sent her back to the hotel.”

Nikolai paused, then, “All right, listen. What direction are you going?”

“We’re changing direction every thirty seconds. Hell, I think we’re going west.” Michael then saw the river up ahead, and the ambulance veered right, heading for a bridge adorned in banners. “The Moskva River is on my left, we’re heading for a green bridge lined with flags.”

“Stay on him,” Nikolai shot back. “We’re going to work away in front of you and cut in a few streets up to box him in.”

The ambulance flew over the short bridge spanning the boat-lined Moskva River, Michael tight on his tail. Traffic began to grow in both directions, a few joggers out for their morning run. The ambulance crossed going seventy when its taillights suddenly lit up, smoke rising from its locked-up wheels. As they drove down the other side, everything came to a jarring halt. Cars were packed in like sardines, thick and congested. Traffic barely inching along. The ambulance’s siren cried out but there was nowhere for anyone to go. Frustrated commuters waved out their windows to no one in particular, cursing the world and the ambulance’s relentless lights and sirens. Without warning, a car cut in front of Michael, missing him by inches. Michael wasn’t concerned; the ambulance wasn’t going anywhere. But then another car cut in and then another. It was as if the collective consciousness of drivers saw a sucker in their midst and would exploit his weakness, his fear of having his fender bumped. Another car tried to cut in but Michael hit the gas and the brake, causing the car to jerk forward in fits and starts. He was willing to ram anyone who got in his way; he wasn’t about to lose the ambulance to a bunch of aggressive commuters. Michael picked up the radio. “No need to hurry,” he said. “Everything is jammed up on the far side of the bridge.”

“That will at least give us a few minutes to catch up and get in front of you,” Nikolai said, his Russian accent garbling his voice through the radio’s heavy static. “If he makes a move, I don’t care if you have to drive on the sidewalk and run over a bunch of old ladies, you stay on his ass. We can’t afford to lose him.”

“You mind telling me what happened back there?” Michael asked already knowing that Fetisov had betrayed them by sending Lexie into the Liberia and unwittingly to his death.

“Tell me you found the box, ’cause there is no way we are getting back in the Kremlin,” Nikolai said.

“Yeah, we found it.” Michael restrained his anger, fearful for Busch, who was unwittingly sitting in a trap.

“Where?”

“Under the Kremlin.” Michael wasn’t about to share the location of the Liberia or the fact that Lexie was dead.

“Obviously. Thanks for the insight. If you get picked up by the police you can’t let it fall into their hands.”

“Relax.” Michael wouldn’t allude to Susan. He held tight with his left hand to the wheel. The ambulance was now five cars ahead in the thick of slow-moving traffic. “The box is safe. Now, you mind telling me what the hell happened down there?” Michael said into the radio. The mass of cars began to move as one, not fast, but it was movement, creeping along at five miles per hour.

“Well, if you want to talk about a cluster—”

The ambulance suddenly turned left, its wheels screeching as it took off down a vacant street. Michael stuffed the radio in his pocket and peeled off right behind the ambulance. He paid no mind to Fetisov’s garbled answer coming from his pocket.

Nikolai drove the dark-green jeep over the Putinskaya bridge. As they made a right off the exit ramp, Busch saw them: army trucks, police cruisers, lights flashing as they raced up the Kremlyovskaya highway on the far side of the river. They were less than a mile away. Busch’s heart froze. There was no question in his mind who they were after.

“How connected are you?” Busch said as looked over his shoulder.

Nikolai followed his line of sight.
“Chërt voz’mí!”

The traffic ahead of them fell to a virtual stop; Busch could barely contain himself from getting out of the car and running. He hit the button on his radio. “Michael, there’s a convoy of hell coming our way. Looks like army, police, and who knows what.”

Nikolai snatched the radio from Busch’s hands. “Michael, listen to me, you’ve got to stop that ambulance. We’re not going to get to you in time and if he hits the main highway he will leave you far behind and we’ll never see Genevieve again.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Michael shot back.

Nikolai paused a moment and looked at Busch. He finally raised the radio to his lips and softly said, “Any way you can.”

Ninety mph. The ambulance was now opening up, making a move. Michael rode right on the tail of the emergency vehicle. He was so close he could see the detail of the corrosion on the tailpipe. The ambulance zigzagged around vehicles that failed to yield, Michael matching him turn for turn. Michael had to get him back into the side streets if he had any chance of catching up.

Michael gunned the engine of the ZiL, its eight cylinders kicking into overdrive with a deep growl. He ran up along the right side of the ambulance. He looked ahead: one hundred yards up, there was an entrance to a side street. Michael began to pull ahead, just slightly, his right fender barely passing the front of the ambulance. He waited to make his move. The side street was fifty yards off, closing quick. Michael suddenly jerked the wheel to the right, scraping the ambulance and forcing him into the curb. The ambulance’s brakes locked up and the vehicle fell right into Michael’s plan. It skidded in a ninety-degree turn and raced down the side road that ran perpendicular to the main thoroughfare.

The side streets were narrow and confined. The ambulance was now on the run; it no longer obeyed traffic signs, it gave no quarter to pedestrians. Its siren chittered and wailed its warning to anyone and everything in its path. Michael was less than a car length behind. If he was somehow able to stop the ambulance, he had no idea how many thugs he would face, and his only weapon was a knife that was still strapped to his calf, having forgone the guns. He hated being faced with the unknown.

Michael again raced up alongside the ambulance. This time he had no intention to direct it left or right. He meant to bring it to a stop no matter what it took.

Michael pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, ramming his front fender into the left rear side of the emergency vehicle. The ambulance fishtailed out to the right, the driver fighting with all his might to regain control, but it was too late, the ambulance turned sideways, skidding down the road at a right angle. And then the driver over-compensated, spinning back to the left almost all the way around, and before the driver could correct his motion, Michael rammed him again. The large vehicle spun wildly and smashed headlong into the side wall of an old building. Michael locked up his brakes and came to a screaming halt adjacent to the ambulance. There was no sign of Busch and Nikolai. He tried the radio but got no response. He couldn’t wait. He had no idea if Genevieve was injured in the accident, but, no matter her condition, he would have to grab her and get out of there before the police came. He hopped out of the car and opened the ZiL’s rear door closest to the ambulance.

Michael grabbed both rear handles of the ambulance and ripped open the doors. In the front seat, the driver lay slumped over the steering wheel, gasping for air. He wiped blood from his forehead with a wobbly hand before finally losing consciousness. The gurney before Michael was locked in place in the rear of the ambulance. Michael looked at the medical tools spread around the vehicle that had been jarred from their positions by the crash. Scalpels and gauze pads littered the floor, the metal cabinet doors hung open, supplies hanging out, an oxygen tank in the corner hissed, its valve cracked and bent.

And then panic hit Michael, his thoughts a flurry of confusion. For the gurney was empty. Genevieve wasn’t there.

Fetisov and Busch were at a standstill. The poorly tuned engine of the army jeep created a constant heavy vibration throughout the vehicle. The approaching sirens fought to drown out Busch’s thoughts. He looked at Nikolai, who remained focused on the traffic ahead. He wondered how much it took to buy a man’s allegiance and get him to betray his country. Generals—men of the highest command—were lifers, those who dedicated their entire existence for the love of their homeland. And yet here was a man who must have served the better part of his life both during and after the Cold War for Mother Russia, who seemed to have sold his loyalty to the highest bidder. Now, with what sounded like the entire Russian army on their tail, Fetisov showed no sign of fear, no sign of any emotion, for that matter. There was not an ounce of panic in him, no nervous drumming of the fingers, no fidgeting in his seat, no checking his weapon—all instinctive responses to danger and he exhibited none of them. A lifetime of staunch command had expertly trained him to handle any situation with grace.