The Thieves of Heaven (27 page)

Michael turned back to the pedestal, hoping against hope that Finster hadn’t seen his face. For, suddenly, Michael was now even more scared than when he’d entered the outside chamber. Finster had hired him to steal these keys and now the man was more than afraid of them; he was clearly terrified. He was refusing to come in contact with them as if they carried the plague. Suspicion raced through Michael’s mind; now that he had completed his mission, was he in even greater trouble than he previously imagined? Was there more to these keys than he knew? And if one of the most powerful men in the world was so frightened of them, why wasn’t he? Michael wanted out, to be back outside, back in the light of day, back home with Mary. Anywhere but here.

He placed each key on the pedestal’s velvet cushion, setting the box beside them. Stepping back, looking at the keys here in this room, he sensed deep down that this was a mistake, that he had violated something beyond the law.

“The money has already been wired, along with a bonus of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for you and your wife to enjoy once she is better,” Finster said, pulling Michael back to reality.

Michael turned and faced his employer. As wrong as this was starting to seem, Michael reminded himself that the theft was enabling him to provide the treatment that Mary so desperately needed, the treatment that would save her life. And in the same way that we justify just one more drink, just one more cookie, convincing ourselves that it won’t do us any harm, he eased his mind and his conscience, and shook Finster’s hand.

“Thank you,” Michael said as Finster handed him the wire transfer confirmation.

“Thank
you.
I truly wish your wife a speedy recovery so you can both get on with this business of living.”

Finster led the way out of the room and as he was about to close the door, he looked in on his new prize. A smile crept along his thin lips. It wasn’t a smile of joy or happiness: this was a smile of triumph, the smile worn by a general who has just taken the hill, eradicating his enemy. The smile of a battle-weary emperor who, near defeat, has just obtained the one weapon that could not only save him but turn the tides of war.

Chapter 14

M
orning light filled the room. It had been a
rough night; they all had been since the treatment started but last night particularly so. The vomiting and diarrhea wracked her system, sapping her energy. Pain literally seemed to rise up from the marrow of her bones. She was exhausted, drained of what little will she still possessed.

As the sunlight touched her eyelids, Mary stirred. The solace of sleep would elude her for another day. She rolled over and her mind leapt, a joy racing through her body as she saw him. For the first time since her diagnosis almost three weeks ago, she felt rejuvenated. Now that he was back, she would defeat this monster that had challenged her, beating it back down to the horrible place from whence it came.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

Michael was arranging flowers. He had cleaned and freshened her room. The disorganization and clutter were gone from her life. The curtains were pulled back for the first time in days and Mary stared at the blue sky as if for the first time.

“Morning,” he replied as he leaned in to kiss her passionately. Mary admonished herself. Her dreams of danger and death were nothing but senseless worry; Michael had come back to her, just as he had promised.

“I missed you,” she murmured as she sat up against the pillows.

“I missed your smile. How’re you feeling?”

“Much better.”

“I’m glad.” Michael knew she was lying but he wouldn’t call her on it, he knew she was being strong for him.

Mary nestled herself in Michael’s arms. Of all the thoughts and prayers, of all the medications and good wishes, this was what she really needed. To be held. And to hold. To her it wasn’t just the receiving of love, it was the giving. It was like an elixir to them both. The anxiety that Michael had felt since he left the country was gone, left somewhere back in Germany.

“I was thinking maybe”—he pulled back, looking into her eyes—“we could head out to the Cape for a week, stay at the Ship’s Bell Inn.”

“Make love in the dunes…”

“Mmmm. Eat Portuguese soup…”

“…fresh lobster.”

Michael paused. “Did they say how much longer?” He couldn’t wait to drag her away from this place.

“Another week. They’re doing some more poking and prodding tomorrow.”

“I’d like to do some poking and prodding of my own.”

“We could arrange that,” Mary said as she nuzzled into his neck. She had always loved his smell, it comforted her, secured her. Though she had tried to push the thought out of her mind, she’d spent the last seven days thinking he would never return. It was the one thing that truly scared her: she was terrified to die alone. “How was your trip?”

“A little longer, a little harder than I thought.” Michael began rubbing her back, working from the shoulders down, the way she liked it.

“Paul was looking for you.” She closed her eyes and laid her head upon his shoulder.

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Wanted you to call him when you got back, said you have a game Saturday.”

That was bullshit. Busch was going to string him up alive. But Michael would deal with that; after what he had gone through these last few weeks—Mary’s illness, the Vatican, Israel, Finster—he could handle anything. No, he wouldn’t call Busch yet. Busch could wait.

“Did you finish your job?” Mary asked. Michael was not telling her everything, but she knew whatever he had done he had done for her. Now was not the time to question him on it.

“Yes.” He held her tightly. “I won’t leave you again.”

“I know.”

For the first time in a long time, they both believed that everything finally would be all right.

Michael entered his dark apartment, throwing the mail on a side table. He popped his head in the bedroom calling, “Hawk?”

He checked the answering machine; the little red light read thirteen messages. He pushed the button.
“Message number one,”
the electronic female voice droned.

“Michael? It’s me, call me.” Busch’s voice came over the machine. Michael hit the button, going to the next message. “Call me, Michael.” Again Busch. Again, Michael pushed the button. “Michael, I know you’re back, don’t make me come and get—” He hit the button, cutting off the message. He turned off the machine.

“Hawk!?” He checked the kitchen. Maybe Mrs. McGinty had the dog out for a walk. Michael realized that CJ was nowhere to be seen, either. He actually hated the cat, he had always hated cats, such a fickle breed of animal, he never understood their attraction. But it was Mary’s cat and if she loved the little beast, then…he could at least pretend to love it. Mrs. McGinty had probably kept CJ in her apartment since he left. Michael would have to remember to get her a gift for her troubles.

He scooped up his mail and, opening it, wandered into the den. Turning on the light, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Sitting in his favorite chair was a man, powerfully built, hair black as pitch, eyes like blue slate. Weathered face and hands, definitely someone who’d been through the world a few times. The stranger was dressed in black slacks with a black shirt; his black sneakers were worn down at the soles although the black uppers were surprisingly clean. His age was impossible to determine: he could have been anywhere from a worn-out thirty years old to a vibrant fifty. In his lap stretched Mary’s cat. He stroked CJ as if she were his own. Hawk was sprawled out at his feet, asleep.

“Mr. St. Pierre?” His accent was Italian.

Michael instantly recognized the voice. “Get out,” he ordered.

The man sat there.

Michael reached for the phone. “You’ve got thirty seconds,” he said and started dialing.

“And what would you tell your policeman friend?”

Michael slowed his dialing.

“That the man whom you robbed is sitting in your apartment?” The foreigner didn’t appear to even breathe.

Michael hung up the phone.

“You didn’t think I’d let you get away?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Simon,” the man answered.

Tension crackled in the air between them like lightning. Michael could hear the blood rushing in his ears as he tried to focus on what to do, how to react.

“I would like my keys back,” Simon said.

Michael knew that no job was ever really over. The specter of being found, of being arrested, perpetually lingered. “I’m not sure what you are talking about,” he evaded.

“Really?”

“Really.” Michael crossed the room toward the seated stranger and quietly called out, “Hawk?” His voice filled with frustration and anger. Hawk woke and, looking at his master, rolled onto his back looking for a rub. Michael crouched down and scratched his belly. “Some watchdog,” Michael whispered to the air as much as Hawk, all the while assessing the mettle of the man still seated before him.

“Let me see if I can refresh your memory,” Simon said. “A little short on cash, wife gravely ill, you running around the Vatican setting off smoke bombs.” He made a gesture with his hands. “Stealing a couple of decoy keys, hopping a plane to Jerusalem, climbing Mount Kephas, stealing two more keys from a church.” He paused for emphasis. “My bullets missing your head by inches,” he added.

“You’re full of shit.”

Simon didn’t break his stare as he pulled a pistol from his jacket, resting it on his leg. He slowly inched it over, coming to rest on the head of the sleeping cat. His eyes betrayed nothing. “I believe this is your wife’s pet.”

Michael was beyond furious: this guy was flat-out threatening him and there was nothing Michael could do about it.

“Tell me where the keys are.” Simon looked at the cat, at Hawk, and then back at Michael. “The three of you can live if…” Chillingly, he let the ultimatum hang. “Maybe I could visit Mary; it would be a shame—all that effort, and she ends up dead because of your ineptitude.”

Michael’s work never had put Mary in peril; never would he have allowed that to happen on any job.

“The keys are gone,” he said curtly. “I sold them.”

“To?”

“A man.”

Simon exhaled. “Name?” he asked softly.

Finster’s guards numbered twenty, that was Michael’s count. And the stolen keys were underground in what Michael knew was an impenetrable room. No one was going to get to them. Not Simon, not anyone. “A German industrialist. August Finster,” Michael replied. The words rolled off his tongue; he felt no remorse at betraying his employer. August Finster understood when you played with the big boys sometimes the big boys hit back—sometimes the jaw, sometimes the heart.

With the grace of an animal, Simon stood. CJ leaped off his lap. The man was tall; at least six-two. “You have no comprehension of what you have done,” he said.

“I saved my wife’s life—”

“—And damned the world.”

The statement hung in the air, leaving Michael speechless.

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Do you believe in God, Mr. St. Pierre?”

“Not at the moment.”

“So, you once did? Well, you better start believing again.”

“I’ll say a prayer of thanks when you leave.”

Simon stood his ground. “In the year of Our Lord thirty-two, Jesus said to one of His disciples, ‘Thou art Petros and upon this rock, I shall build My Church….And what thou bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven.’ And he gave Peter two keys to symbolize his power to absolve or condemn. The power to control the Gates of Heaven.”

There was a coldness to this man like Michael had never seen before. He wouldn’t stop at Michael’s death or Mary’s; he was acting on a deeper belief, one usually reserved for terrorists and fanatics.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Michael insisted.

“You still don’t understand, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“You have stolen the keys to Heaven.”

This guy was insane. Whatever credibility he had just flew out the window as far as Michael was concerned. Michael’s faith had waned and this only proved to amplify his resolve. He had assumed it was a money issue for this guy’s boss, but no, it was one of those Blues-Brothers-mission-from-God routines.