The Thieves of Faith (50 page)

“I hate vodka,” Busch said as he downed his glass of whiskey on the rocks.

“How’s the head?” Simon asked Michael.

“Fine,” Michael said softly as he looked out the window at the city below. He considered the canvas map that lay in his dive bag and thought of the lost Russian history it exposed. He considered turning it over to the Russian government but decided he would let its existence remain lost in time. The mysteries of Russia would remain just that for years to come, maybe for eternity. It was a world so beautiful, so filled with promise, but like most countries it was in the hands of the government, and that was not always a good fate.

He had come in with the hope of saving his father, but was leaving with his tasks unaccomplished and even more lives placed in the hands of Julian Zivera. Along with Genevieve, Susan’s fate was added to his conscience.

Somehow, she had touched him, her dark eyes cutting through his wall to warm his closely guarded heart. A woman who on first impression had infuriated him had found a way in. And of all times to have his heart open up again…He had briefly seen that he could move on with his life without tarnishing Mary’s memory. But now…

Martin emerged from the back of the plane. Simon watched as the attorney continued forward and entered the cockpit. With as much privacy as they were going to get, Simon turned to Michael. “Michael, there is something you need to know about Julian Zivera.”

“Before you deliver any more bad news,” Michael said with a forced smile, “thanks for saving my ass. If you didn’t show, I’d be dead or shoveling snow in some gulag by now.”

Simon nodded, acknowledging Michael’s appreciation.

“You’re welcome,” Busch cut in.

“Oh, yeah, you, too.” Michael smirked at his friend before turning back to Simon. “So, what didn’t she tell me?”

Simon settled in, centering himself. “Julian Zivera’s motives are not what you think; this is not about power, money, greed. Julian kidnapped your father as a means to save himself.” Simon paused. “He has an inoperable growth on his brain. He is dying and looks to the box as his only hope. He’s exhausted all avenues for a cure: the latest cutting-edge therapies, new age herbal regimes, ancient remedies, experimental drugs. All his money, all his power cannot buy him a cure. He, like all of us, cannot buy back time, cannot forestall death with a large cash payment. His greatest loves, his money and his power, have proven useless in his quest for survival. And it has left him desperate, grasping at straws. Unfortunately”—Simon paused again—“there is some validity to this straw.”

“Excuse me while I get another drink.” Busch stood from the couch and headed for the bar, bringing the bottle with him. “This maudlin love fest for a psychotic is making me thirsty.”

Michael sat there a moment, getting lost, losing focus with all of the complications and revelations, and tried to get back to the most basic of things. “Simon, my father and Susan are being held by Julian. If I have any hope of saving them, I need to know.” Michael paused. “I need to know everything.”

“I think we’ve heard enough stories,” Busch said as he sat back down and refilled his glass of Jack Daniel’s. “I say we break into his compound and pluck them out. Let the authorities deal with the cleanup.”

Michael turned to Busch, taking a deep breath. “Please, we are thirty-five thousand feet in the air; no place to go. I need to hear this.”

Simon looked at Michael, stood, and walked back to the bar. He took his time as he poured more ice in his glass, topping it off with some whiskey. The plane was deathly quiet but for the dull whine of the jet engines as he returned to his seat. He settled back in his chair, looked at Michael, and began. “Since the beginning of time, man has sought eternal life. All of mankind—bar none—seeks to live forever, whether it be in some celestial realm or on terra firma, spiritually or physically. Alexander the Great sought it; it was the reason Ponce de León sailed in search of Bimini; gunpowder was discovered by the Chinese in their quest to find the elixir of life. Even in the simplest ways, in our everyday life we all seek it out. We modify our diets, we exercise, we take vitamins, all in hope of living longer. Modern medicine’s sole purpose is to conquer disease, to cure us, so we may live. The quest for immortality is universal and similarly represented. Every religion, every faith, seeks eternal life in one way, shape, or form. We forget, the promise of eternal life is the primary motivator behind religion’s appeal. The theme of Christian Scripture, God’s promise,
He who believes in Me shall have eternal life.
The avoidance of our end is part of the human condition. To survive is our instinctual programming.” Simon paused a moment, looking at Michael and Busch, their eyes fixed on him, waiting on his every word as he fell to a hushed tone.

“Each culture speaks of eternity, each culture has fables and myths. And like the story of the great flood, there is one underlying story found universally. A story about the Tree of Life. It is central to Kabbalah, the mystical studies of the Jewish Torah. It is a recurrent theme in the Assyrian religions and the ancient Greeks’ earliest religious forms. Egyptian mythology says that Isis and Osiris emerged from the Tree of Life, which they called Saosis. It is spoken of in Revelations twenty-two, in which the Tree of Life bore twelve fruits that would heal nations. In the Norse legends, it is known as Yggdrasil. In China it is a tree that yields a peach every three thousand years and renders those who partake of it immortal. In Arabian mythology there are jewel-encrusted trees surrounding the fountain of life. And of course, the Tree of Life spoken of in Genesis, adjacent to the Tree of Knowledge from which Adam and Eve nibbled the apple. This tree, though, instead of imparting knowledge, bore fruit that would provide eternal life to those who partook of it. But God feared that man was unfit for this gift, for it would make gods of men. And so he set angels to guard the tree, to prevent man from ever acquiring this gift.”

“Angels? You have got to be kidding me.” Busch stood and looked at Michael. “You’re not seriously listening to this, are you? Look, I know you and I have seen some strange things but I’m not sure I can believe this.”

“I’m not really concerned with what you believe,” Michael said, cutting Busch off. “It’s what Julian, the man who has my father and Susan and Genevieve, believes. I need to know everything about that box, fact or fiction. So, please, sit down and shut up.”

Busch reluctantly sat back down.

Simon didn’t acknowledge their exchange as he went on. “The angels were charged with guarding Eden and the secret of eternal life, but they grew tired, they grew rebellious. They placed the secret at the bottom of a golden box and surrounded it with death in order to trick man.”

“Are we still talking fables here?” Busch asked sarcastically, holding up his hands in question. “I just want to be clear.”

Michael’s eyes bore into Busch until he put his head back and closed his eyes.

“And this box was hidden away,” Simon continued. “Its legend grew as a warning: whoever seeks out the secrets of God shall perish in doing so.

“For countless centuries it lay in the hands of priests and kings, those who grasped its fatal implications, though some could not resist its temptation, its allure, and watched in horror as their kingdoms were laid to ruin. It was sought by conquerors and armies, emperors and thieves, taken as the spoils of war only to lay the unsuspecting marauders in their graves for their greed and imprudence when they foolishly opened the lid.

“The golden box finally came to rest in Byzantium where its existence was only known by each successive king; kings who heeded the warnings of death, wise men who knew the implications of untempered desire. And at the fall of the last of the ancient empires, it was deemed it should be moved as far from civilization as possible. It was sent to Russia with the Byzantine Liberia, where the box was buried below the earth, forgotten to history, lost to legend and myth.”

Busch sat there, his eyes closed, his leg pumping in frustration.

Michael sat forward. “I need to know, Simon. No myths, no bedtime stories. I need to know what exactly is inside the box.”

Simon took a moment, composing himself, as if reaching back into his mind to reveal a horrible truth. “Eternal life for those who open the box…but at the ultimate cost. It is wrapped in the darkest of evils. An evil that can never be allowed to escape. It has always been followed by death; those who have not heeded its warning have opened it and watched as those around them perished, their kingdoms befallen by plague and pestilence, war, drought, and eventual death. Their worlds destroyed, their empires devastated. It is an evil that has not been visited on the world since before Ivan withstood its temptation, a temptation that he was only able to resist through his faith and fear. Michael.” Simon paused. “This box contains never-ending darkness.”

“Once released, can it be contained?” Michael asked with hesitancy, dreading the answer.

“I don’t know…”

“So, what are you saying, this is apocalyptic?” Busch asked dismissively, his eyes still closed, his leg pumping faster. “Tell me it’s disease, a plague, a bad case of the flu, I can deal with that. But some mythical, God-willed Armageddon? Give me a break.”

“Just so you know what those big words you toss around in that small mind of yours mean, apocalypse translates as ‘revelation,’” Simon said, trying to contain his anger. “That which is uncovered. It comes from the Greek word which literally means to pull the lid off something. You call it what you want.”

“So, we’re low on options,” Michael said, trying to pull the dueling personalities back from the edge. He sat there, his eyes unfocused, his mind trying to digest what he was up against, but it was like reality became an icy slope and he was slipping away. They were up against a man who literally killed his family, the people he was closest to—his wife and father-in-law—to take over and inherit their billion-dollar ministry; who exploited God for his sheer greed; who preached, but hypocritically contradicted his every sermon. Michael sat up in his chair, leaning in. “There is no chance he is going to let anyone go,” Michael said with resignation.

“Such a man could never afford anyone to know the atrocities he has committed; it would tear his empire down, leaving it in nothing but ashes. He is going to kill your father, Michael. And he is going to kill Susan and Genevieve.”

“I say we grab Susan and your dad,” Busch said. “And get the hell as far away from that guy as we can.”

“I wish it were that easy,” Simon said. “He will stop at nothing to prevent his death. His holy words are nothing but duplicitous, hiding his malevolent and twisted mind, Julian is darkness personified. And now, with that box, the power he will unwittingly possess, it would be like raising the Devil and placing all the world’s bombs in his hands.”

Michael looked out at the ocean five miles below, the beauty of the moonlit surface masking its depths, its mysteries and dangers. It reminded him of the box, of its beauty and allure, and its death within. He felt as if he were trapped below the surface, futilely struggling for air, fearing that he would never breathe again.

“Remember one thing, Michael,” Simon said, leaning forward, looking at his friend with uncommon sympathy. “Even in the darkest of moments there is always hope.”

Michael listened to Simon’s words, unsure how he could ever regain hope. His life was without direction since Mary’s death. And now a father he never knew and a woman who saw into his heart were about to die; he felt completely powerless.

Martin emerged from the cockpit and picked up the cordless phone on the jet’s front cabin wall. He spoke quietly in a burst of questions and then began jotting down notes, nodding his head. His actions caught Michael’s attention, stopping their conversation.

Finally, after a full minute, Martin walked over to Michael and held out the phone.

Michael looked at him questioningly. “For me?” Michael looked around; the only people he really considered friends were on this plane. “Who is it?”

Martin stared at him. “Your father.”

The plane touched down on a small hard pack landing strip that dated back to World War II; but for the occasional private jet shepherding the rich and famous to the Corsican coast, it didn’t see much use. Surrounded by Quonset huts and tin metal hangars that looked as if they would tip in a summer breeze, the airport’s clientele consisted of a small biplane acrobatics team and an aviation school with five single-engine 1960s-era Piper Cubs. Its air traffic controller operated out of his living room, ran the air-fuel depot, and, three times a week, was the town butcher.

Martin exited the plane as everyone else remained in their seats. Michael watched him walk across the runway and up to a waiting limo where a driver stood manning the rear door. Martin spoke to him briefly, slipped him some cash, and nodded. The driver opened the door and out stepped Stephen Kelley.

The two men stood silently for a moment, an unspoken relief exchanged before warmly shaking hands. Martin actually broke out in a grin and it was the first time that Michael had seen him smile. Kelley was dressed in a black security outfit—it looked more natural on him than the Brooks Brothers suit Michael met him in—and looked no worse for wear. He glanced toward the plane as he and Martin walked up the ramp. Kelley looked much different than Michael had recalled from six days earlier. Of all things, he looked rested.

Kelley stepped through the door, walked straight past Michael, Busch, and Simon without a word or a glance exchanged, and poured himself a Macallan from the bar. He downed the Scotch whisky, threw some ice in the glass, and poured himself another. He finally turned around and looked at the crew before him. Kelley stared at Simon and then Busch as if examining a case file and then his eyes finally fell on Michael.

They looked at each other a good thirty seconds, a world of thought passing between them.

“We’ve got a conversation to finish,” Kelley said.

“That’s an understatement.”