The Thieves of Faith (63 page)

Julian sat in a large Adirondack chair in the outdoor portion of the rear salon. A host of lounge chairs and tables scattered the deck. The ship’s rope was coiled and lay in the corner.

Michael walked out into the large open salon, his satchel clutched closely to his side, the ever-present guard right behind him.

“So, which box have you brought me this evening?” Julian asked as he sat on the deck confident, emboldened.

“Where is my father?”

“So, already calling him Dad, huh?”

“Where is he?”

“Let me see the box.”

“When I see my father.”

“Michael.” Julian smiled. “I really don’t think you are in a position to give orders now, are you? I’d like to see the box.”

“What’s the hurry? Where do you think I’m going to go? You’ve got what, a crew of twenty guards protecting you?”

“Fifteen, actually. This ship needs only two to operate, the rest is computerized.”

“Fifteen guards protecting you,” Michael said as he looked at his escort.

Julian continued to smile. “Smart man, you are. I underestimated you, but you have deeply underestimated me.”

“What are you going to do with this?” Michael said as he held out his bag. He walked about the room, looking around, finally walking out on deck toward Julian, the stars filling the sky from horizon to horizon. He looked out over the rail, at the dark sea five stories below, hoping that his friends had survived the destruction of their only means of escape.

“Let me see the box,” Julian said.

Michael briefly opened his satchel and flashed its only contents at Julian. “I want to see my father, I want to know that he is alive.”

Julian laughed. “You don’t make demands of me.” Michael gripped the rail, turning his back to it, feeling the coolness against his skin. He looked at Julian and, without warning, dangled the bag over the rail of the ship.

“You won’t.” Julian smiled.

“I will if I don’t see my father. How do I know you haven’t killed him already?”

“You won’t drop it.”

“Thirteen thousand feet deep, over two miles. You’ll never find it.”

The two men stared at each other, both stubborn, both defiant, both hate-filled. Each held the other man’s desire, both possessing the ability to shatter each other’s quest, both possessing the ability to destroy what the other man wanted. It was a test of wills, a challenge to see who would break first.

Finally, Julian turned to his guard and nodded.

The skinny guard stood at the edge of the starboard opening, watching as the last flaming remnants of the fishing boat flicked out and sank away. He stared up at the moon as he threw his rifle over his left shoulder.

And without warning, a black figure reached up out of the sea, grabbing him about the legs and pulling him into the dark water. He held his breath as he went under but despite his best efforts, the water still rushed into his lungs; there was nothing he could do about the knife wound across his throat.

Simon climbed up into the starboard opening, pulled his waterproof bag aboard, withdrew his guns, and strapped them to his body. He reached back in the bag and pulled out a large gray box. He affixed the magnetic backing to the hull of the ship in the rear corner of the room and threw a switch. The frequency scrambler immediately sent an undetectable signal into the air, scrambling any and all radio transmissions, rendering the ship silent and deaf to the outside world.

After heading down into the galley of the fishing boat, he and Busch had come up through the forward starboard side hatch and slipped over the side into the water. They had strapped on dive gear, swam down, and remained beneath the safety of
God’s Whisper
as the fishing boat was blown to pieces.

Simon stood up and looked around the large open room; he walked to the corner and stared up at the twenty-foot tender that hung on the ceiling rail. It was a white cruiser with a large mercury outboard, built for shepherding passengers to and from shore. Simon reached up and pulled the release lever and watched as the boat glided along the overhead track to the starboard opening. As it reached the open door, the track swung out into the night and angled down, gently laying the boat into the nighttime water. Simon released it from its overhead mooring and retracted the guide track. He gave the boat a gentle push, setting it adrift, checked his guns, and headed off into the recesses of the ship.

Busch swam down through the dark waters of the Mediterranean, his dive light not providing him with any comfort underneath the enormous hull of
God’s Whisper
. He hated diving alone and, in fact, had not done it since he was a teenager. But it wasn’t just being alone, it was being surrounded by total darkness, not knowing what was behind you, beneath you. It was the fear of knowing that there was two miles of nothingness between you and ocean floor. It was the feeling of being trapped in a bleak solitary hell, forever on the edge of death. Busch always heeded the number-one rule of diving: never dive alone. But he had no time for rules if they had any hope of saving Michael’s father; rules should be the last thing on their minds.

Busch swam along the dark hull, his light leading the way, inspecting it from aft to stern three times. Busch’s father was a fisherman who trolled and toiled the Atlantic as his father had before him, and as such, Busch knew boats: their designs and, most applicably now, their weaknesses. He knew exactly what he was looking for and found it. He clipped his light to his dive vest, reached in his dive bag, and pulled out the large conical device. He grabbed his light and shined it up at the bow seam that ran the width of the enormous ship. He affixed the device directly upon the joint, its magnetic grip holding tight. Michael had designed the charge. Using pieces of cast iron, he jury-rigged three half bowls packing them with Semtex. The design would shape the charge, direct the strength of the explosion inward, almost doubling the force of the blast toward the ship, causing the most possible damage.

Busch quickly swam aft and affixed the second device at the stern seam before returning to the center, placing the last bomb on the portside seam. Each was located to effect the most damage to the hull, breaching its most vulnerable of points, ensuring that if there were compartments that could be sealed in the event of a single breach, their design would prove useless in the face of a three-point onslaught.

Busch checked his watch; he had five minutes before he was to swim for cover. He prayed that Michael had found his father, for once the charges went off, there would be no saving anyone who remained on
God’s Whisper.

Simon rounded the corner of the lowermost level, staying low, holding tight to the wall. Two guards walked down the hall toward him, lost in conversation, unaware of his presence, unaware as Simon’s bullets pierced their brains, ending their lives. Simon dragged the two bodies into a storage room, and continued on. He found and opened a metal side door to reveal the crew quarters, confined and dark, five guards asleep, their guns next to them like security blankets.

Simon quietly closed the door and pulled a short chain from his bag, silently wrapping it about the hatch locks, securing the door from opening. He continued on toward the back of the ship. He found the engine room and slowly opened the oversized metal door, slipping inside.

The twin engines were enormous, each the size of a small truck. The room was beyond pristine; its battleship-gray floor shone as if it was just painted. Though they were at rest, the engines hummed in wait. The smaller motors of the rear stabilizers cycled on and off in tandem with the forward stabilizers, maintaining the ship’s current position without need of an anchor. There was no one there, no crew needed in an automated age, the large computer on the side wall performing the duty of monitoring operations. But Simon knew they would not trust it all to automation, and his suspicions were confirmed as the gun came to rest at the back of his head.

His captor gave no command or question, holding his pistol tight against the back of Simon’s head. Simon heard him thumb his radio, calling the captain, but Simon knew that to be a useless effort; his radio frequency scrambler would impede all communications.

As they stood there in the engine room, time seeming to slow to a stop, Simon knew they couldn’t remain; when the explosions went, this would be the first place to flood. They would be the first to die.

Stephen Kelley walked through the salon out onto the aft deck, the guard’s .357 Magnum in his back reminding him not to run. Michael, still holding his satchel over the rail above the sea, looked at him, happy that he was still alive, but with no sense of relief. Stephen’s shoulder was still immobilized, Susan’s makeshift field dressing holding up better than he anticipated. Michael saw the fire of anger in his father’s eyes; it was exactly the emotion Michael hoped for.

“Michael, don’t even tell me you brought that thing on board,” Stephen said.

Michael said nothing as he looked at his dad.

“This is not a self-pitying statement. But believe me, neither my nor anyone’s life is worth trading for that thing.”

“Apparently, he thinks different,” Julian said as he walked over to the side rail of the ship where Michael stood, holding the satchel out over the Mediterranean. “Now give me the box.”

Michael said nothing as he continued to hold the box over the dark ocean four stories below.

“Kadrim,” Julian called out to the guard.

And, as if following a script, the guard raised his pistol to Stephen’s head.

“Three seconds.”

Michael looked over at Stephen, who continued to subtly shake his head. And as Michael watched, he knew he had no choice.

He handed the satchel to Julian.

The Italian dug into the bag like a child on Christmas morning and withdrew the golden box. He held it up as he smiled triumphantly, ear to ear.

“Kadrim,” Julian said.

The guard lowered his gun.

“No, no, no, no need to lower your weapon. Please kill them both.”

Michael looked at his father; they locked eyes, a world of emotions traveling between them. They were strangers, yet father and son; they both had somehow survived the last week, only to arrive here, at this moment, waiting for the last bit of hope they clung to to be ripped away.

Michael glanced at Julian, whose mind was lost in the satisfaction of his fulfilled greed, staring at the golden box, the Albero della Vita. Michael looked about the ship for a weapon, but nothing was in reach; he looked at the coil of rope but it was twenty feet away. He looked toward the door for Simon to arrive and save them, but everywhere he looked, he found no hope. Michael’s plan, which had been hastily slapped together, was unraveling. Kadrim stood three feet back from Stephen; he raised his pistol to Stephen’s head. There was no escape. Michael had boxed himself, had boxed everyone, into a corner, literally and figuratively. And now, as a result of his failure, he was about to watch his father die.

Captain Bertram stood at the helm, staring out at the open sea. He was living his dream: the captain of the most luxurious ship in all the world. He was two years under the employment of Julian Zivera and hadn’t regretted it for a single day. It was far more rewarding and adventurous than his commission in that pathetic force called the French navy. And the pay would allow him to retire in three more years with enough money to buy his own boat and sail the world.

He picked up the radio and flipped the switch. “Jean Claude?” Bertram called to the ship’s engineer. They were set to get under way in less than an hour and he wanted to ensure a full pre-op rundown prior to departure. But there was no answer. The nonresponse caused him no worry; his chief engineer was the best of the best and would only be away from his post if it was necessary. Bertram picked up his cold Belgian coffee, took a long sip, and stared out at the peaceful night.

A gun to the head is a terrifying thing, one that leaves the victim trembling in fear, placing an exclamation point over his true vulnerability. But for Simon, it was an advantage. With an assailant three feet away, the bullet could enter his skull before he had taken more than a step. But where he stood now, with the ship’s engineer resting his gun at the back of his head, he had options; and he took them. Simon simultaneously ducked his head as he spun about, grabbing the barrel, forcing it upward while driving his other fist into the man’s throat.

The untrained man released the gun as he fell backward, clutching his neck in a vain attempt to hold off death as his air supply was ended by a crushed larnyx. Simon turned the gun on him and ended his suffering.

Simon only had seconds before the charge beneath the engine room went off. He raced out of the room leaving the dead man upon the floor, flipped down the door bolts on the engine-room door, propping it open, and raced off down the hall.

And the first explosion hit.

The three explosions came in quick succession, the steel hull of the ship screaming as it was torn along its seams. The ship jolted and shook from the concussive blast that was immediately followed by a terrifying roar as the dark water poured into the ship.
God’s Whisper
immediately lost its balance like a drunk on a balance beam, tilting back and forth as the sea violated the lowermost decks.

Kadrim lost his footing, falling backward.

Julian’s eyes went wide with the realization of Michael’s hidden agenda, the inevitability of everything being destroyed. He tumbled against the wall, falling to his knees; the golden box spun out of his hands, shooting across the floor.

The ship began to list hard to the right; glasses, pictures, anything not nailed down crashed and shattered as it was thrown from its perch.