The Thieves of Faith (57 page)

Chapter 61

M
ichael stood in the woods across from the
business wing of the mansion, not far from the cliffs overlooking the sea below. The elegant addition was shaped like an enormous C with two outer wings growing out of the main section. Added only two years prior, they enhanced the already grand structure, burnishing its reputation as a modern-day castle. The four-story stone exterior held centuries of history. Its Corsican architects never imagined the path it would take, from king’s castle to monastery to megalomaniac’s abode. The windows on the new wing were enormous, double-paned, resembling the building’s original design; the mortar was fresh and new, unmarred by rain and time. It was a representation of grandeur seldom exhibited anywhere in the world.

There were two guards, armed and on alert, posted at the sole entrance. Not the casual demeanor of people going through the motions like everywhere else on the compound: they had something to protect.

Michael worked his way around the building to the side. It backed up to the woods. Unlike the rear of the structure, there were no balconies to provide easy access, or a quick, painless ascent. There were no doors to breach, no locks to pick, and the windows of the first two floors were narrow and tall, no more than a foot wide. The third floor, however, held promise: the windows were large and ornate, but more important, big enough for Michael to pass through.

Michael looked at the exterior: the mortar joints were recessed half an inch between the large stones. He dug his fingers in and began his ascent. It was actually an easy climb, the stone providing notched finger-and toeholds within the rocky seams. He reached the third floor in less than a minute. The window was double-paned, vacuum-sealed to retain heat; and it was latched. Even on the third floor, Zivera’s design team had taken every precaution: it was wired to the alarm system, the small red L.E.D. confirming its activation. The window’s security point was a low-voltage contact; once the contact was broken, the system would be activated.

Michael pulled out his knife and slid it through the seam at the midsection of the window; he ran it along the interior and flipped the latch. Michael held tight to the window ledge, his fingers and toes growing cramped from his precarious position. He checked his watch: ten seconds. He looked at the red light on the window contact. And it flashed off. The virus Michael had introduced into the mainframe crashed the compound’s security system right on time.

Michael opened the window and slipped through, landing silently on the marble floor. He quietly moved down the hall, peering through heavy wood and glass doors into elegant offices appointed with polished mahogany furniture, thick velvet window treatments, and fresh flowers. This was no humble display of religion, no vow of poverty here. This was the base of Zivera’s religious operations, the face that he showed to the world, where their fictional history was written, where glossy brochures for membership were created, leaving his more nefarious pursuits hidden away.

Michael looked through the last door in the hall and found the conference room. His heartbeat rose in anticipation. The table was covered in open containers of food and newspapers. A TV silently tuned to CNN hung in the corner. Michael took a breath and opened the door.

But Susan wasn’t there.

Suddenly, the lights went out, the room falling into darkness. Michael dived to the floor, pulled his pistol, and prayed for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light.

The door exploded open, and eight guards poured in the room, each of their rifles trained on him. He knew he could get off a few shots but it would be fruitless; he would be dead in an instant, which would leave Susan no hope of survival. He released the pistol from his hand and lay there prone as the guards surrounded him.

Two of the guards reached down and manhandled him into a chair. The lights flashed back on and Julian walked in the room. His hair was as perfect as the day Michael had met him, not a strand out of place; his jacket was crisp and pressed as if he had just put it on. He wore a broad smile on his face, but it wasn’t a smile of joy: it was a smile of triumph, of victory. “I told you I would kill her if you deviated from my instructions.”

Michael glared at the man as he silently berated himself for being blinded into a trap.

“I told you to bring me the box and not try anything bold, yet here you are playing the hero. Mmmph. So much for Susan,” Julian said matter-of-factly.

“Kill her and you get nothing,” Michael said, hoping his words were true. “Without her alive, you have no chance of getting the box.”

Michael was violently pulled to his feet and spun around coming face-to-face with the milky white eye of Fetisov. The man’s face cracked into a smile as he stripped away Michael’s guns, tore the satchel from Michael’s shoulder, and dropped it on the conference table. The stocky Russian general opened it and reached inside. He withdrew two climbing wedges, four clips of ammo, and an orange medical kit. He flipped up the med kit’s lid to reveal bandages, cotton, and a syringe.

Fetisov held up a bandage, laughing. “I don’t think this will help.”

There was a murmur in the hall; a guard entered the room and whispered to Julian, who smiled and stepped into the hall.

Michael looked at his supplies scattered about the table. He glared at Fetisov. He took in each of the eight guards who stood around him, their guns fixed upon him ready to shoot.

Julian returned and held out his hand. “You were saying?”

Michael stared in disbelief at the object before him, laying in Julian’s hands, as if it was inconsequential, as if it was merely a decorative piece found on a bookshelf. The object before him could mean only one thing: they had breached the jet. And as such, there was a very high probability that Stephen Kelley, the father he had just gotten back, the father he had never known, was dead. For Michael was staring at the box, in all of its golden glory, resting in the open hand of Julian.

“It really pays to cast a wide net. And to know your enemy,” Julian said to Michael. “Ironic how our loyalist of friends have the ability to betray us the most.”

Julian stepped to the side and Michael could finally see out the door. Standing there in the hallway was his father, his face impossible to read.

“You never know who to trust, isn’t that right, Stephen?” Julian asked.

But Kelley remained silent.

Michael’s stomach fell as he looked at Stephen, unsure of the depths of this betrayal, but then it all became clear. There was someone on the plane that they couldn’t trust.

And Martin stepped in the room. He looked at Michael and back to his father without a word.

“Martin,” Julian said. “Why don’t you take your good friend Mr. Kelley down to the wine cellar and offer him a glass of 1982 Mouton Rothschild?”

Martin broke out in an ear-to-ear smile as he took Stephen by the arm and led him out of the room.

Chapter 62

T
he single bullet tore through the guard’s
head, exploding out the back into the medical building’s side door. The second guard required two shots. Simon had lined up his targets from the grassy berm across the street. He and Busch raced over, pulling the two bodies into the converted carriage house. But for the two guards, there was no one there. As they ran through the small lobby, they found the fire-stairs door wide open.

“Keep an eye out,” Simon said. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“What are you going to do?” Busch said as he clutched his rifle. “You’re not going to be able to carry her by yourself.”

“I’m not going to carry her.” Simon looked at him. “I’m going to cremate her.”

“Cremate her?” Busch said in shock.

“It’s OK, it’s her request.” Simon headed down the stairs.

“He’s going to blow us all up,” Busch said as he raised his rifled, peering out the door into the night.

Simon emerged into a long hallway. The main lights were out, putting him on even greater guard. Simon checked his bag and pulled out five charges. He had picked them up while in Moscow; the Russian mobster who supplied Simon with his gun charged him five thousand U.S. dollars apiece. The magnesium, cordite, and sodium mixture burned at over two thousand five hundred degrees Fahrenheit and could waste the building in minutes, but the building wasn’t their target.

Simon had made a promise to Genevieve that he was about to fulfill.

As he moved down the hall, the air grew colder. The emergency lights provided the only illumination, casting long, heavy shadows in his path. The lab door was up ahead, wide open. And with each step the temperature dropped until Simon began to see his breath.

As he approached the open door, Simon was greeted by a surreal sight. The summertime humidity that leaked from the open exterior doors had ringed the inner doorway in white frost where it had condensed, while fog-like wisps swirled about the floor with Simon’s every step.

Simon stepped through the door. He looked around, keeping his back to the wall, moving sideways through the room. Spotlights shined down on the vacant operating table in the center of the room, where trays were prepped with sterilized tools. Everything looked ready for an autopsy.

Simon rounded the table and kept his weapon raised high when his heart skipped a beat. Four dead bodies were spread about the floor, crimson pools of blood haloing their heads and steaming in the cold air. Simon checked the wound on the first doctor—his nameplate read Lloyd—the hole was small, through the man’s forehead just above his right eye.

Simon stood and continued to look about the room, trying to figure out what was going on. Nothing in disarray, nothing out of place: every scalpel, bone saw, and needle laid out on trays and awaiting an autopsy that would never happen. These doctors were caught by surprise, killed within seconds of each other. None of them had time to react. No sign of defense taken by any of them: phones in cradles, cell phones on waistbands, no improvised weapons to ward off an attacker.

Wasting no more time, Simon walked to the freezer, crossed himself, and opened the door. As he looked in the coffin-sized space, he squeezed the door handle until his fingers throbbed. The freezer was dark and empty. He looked back at the gurney.

His mind began to spin.

Genevieve’s body was gone.

Chapter 63

M
ichael walked down the long basement hallway
of the science building, its corridors empty but for the four guards surrounding him and the bristle-headed Russian in the lead who carried the golden box. Fetisov had not said a word to Michael as they walked the half mile from the mansion; it was as if they were strangers unaware of each other’s presence. But that was far from the case. Given the chance, Michael would not hesitate to kill the man who hid behind a facade of Russian charm and humor, who kidnapped Susan, who betrayed them all.

“Fetisov?” Michael shouted.

The Russian turned to Michael, looking at him through his one good eye. He held up the golden box. “I told you I am a man who can get things.”

Michael was stopped before a large office door. He watched as Fetisov and the box disappeared around the corner into the adjacent lab. The guard pulled out a key, unlocked the door, and forced Michael into a white box of a room, filled with caged animals. Their zoo-like chirps and grunts suddenly fell quiet as Michael entered.

Susan turned from one of the cages, her cheeks tear-streaked, her eyes exhausted and bloodshot. She stood a moment as she saw Michael, her face a sea of emotions as she remained anchored in place. And finally she walked to him, wrapped her arms about his neck, and pulled him close.