The Thieves of Heaven (43 page)

One thing about Berlin, even after the reunification, it still had its alleys. Deep and dark. The occasional rat scampered for food but other than that no living thing willingly entered. Which is why an alley was a good place to hide the rental car. Simon couldn’t afford to draw the attention of a curious policeman. In hindsight, he realized that that shouldn’t have been a great worry: not a single man in blue was evident even in the police parking lot. So, assassinating two assassins didn’t create the stir one would expect. He had lain in wait outside the prison for thirteen hours after learning of Michael’s arrest. To break him out was impossible: his intention was simply to kill whoever finally picked Michael up for extradition, and then to continue after Finster.

The rain had stopped, leaving puddles the size of lakes everywhere. Simon sat behind the steering wheel of the idling car, as Michael and Busch stood in the middle of the alley and argued. While the rain had washed away the accumulated grime, it had had no effect on the putrid smell: it seemed to permeate even the brick walls of their surroundings.

After Simon had killed the two assassins, they had sped off from the police station in Simon’s rental car without further incident. The silence was unbroken during the drive, each man stewing, biting his respective tongue from lashing out in anger at the others. It finally all spilled out when Michael and Busch stepped from the car and right into a puddle.

“What are you going to do?” Michael asked Busch.

“What should I do?”

Simon, his arms draped over the steering wheel, said quietly, “You should leave.”

Busch whirled around. “I didn’t ask you,” he snarled, then looked back to Michael. He was waiting for an answer to his question.

“I put you through enough already,” Michael said.

“I didn’t come all the way over here for my amusement.”

“What I told you before, about this man Finster—”

“—is true,” Simon finished, drumming his fingers impatiently on the wheel.

“Did you fill his head with this frigging nonsense?” Busch’s anger made his voice tremble.

“It isn’t nonsense.” Simon slid out of the car.

“What are you, some kind of Bible-banging fanatic or something?”

“In so many words—”

Busch never let him finish. “Well, in so many words—no, in four words:
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

“I’m a priest.”

Busch was silenced. He was a devout man, so strong in his beliefs that another man’s commitment to faith shouldn’t be a surprise, but Simon’s words stunned him nonetheless. Not only had he spoken viciously to him, but Busch had just witnessed this priest shoot a man dead, a bullet through the side of the head, with an efficiency befitting a machine. The sweat-suited assassin had no chance, not that he would have given them one. This priest didn’t kid around.

Busch turned to Michael. “I didn’t come here to drag you back against your will.”

“No? You’re the one who had me arrested.”

“No way. I never told anybody you left the country—either time. You left me slack-jawed at the airline security gate, by the way. What the fuck was up with that? You lied right to my face.” The big man’s eyes were on fire again. He took a deep breath, trying to regain composure. “I didn’t have you arrested; my new ex-partner fucked me over. You remember the preppy prick who clubbed you back at your apartment?”

Michael nodded.

“His name’s Thal and he was running his Internal Affairs cattle prod up my ass for God knows what reason, and now he thinks I let you go. He wants to bring you in so they can hang me high. That boy’s in the know, I’ll give him that. He knew where you were going even before you left. He contacted Interpol with your exact location an hour before you were picked up.”

“Then why the cuffs,
buddy
?” Michael sneered, still angry.

“Well—
buddy
—if you’re picking someone up on an international warrant, handcuffs are the rule. You were to be picked up by Thal and flown back to the U.S. sometime later tonight. If you’d like I can take you back. And listen”—Busch leaned in—“the cuffs were for your benefit. I needed you to listen, needed you to hear me out.”

“There is nothing you can do to help us,” Simon impatiently interjected. “Michael, we are out of time here.”

Busch shifted his gaze to the priest. “I see you and I are going to get along just great, Father.” Simon glared at Busch, but Busch was unfazed; he ignored him and turned back to Michael. “I don’t believe this bullshit, Michael, but…” He pulled out a file and threw it on the hood of the car. “That’s everything about this man Finster.” He turned to Simon. “And he’s just a
man
.” He turned back to Michael. “His businesses, habits, pleasures, his taste in women. His profile comes up a bit short, but I’d be willing to bet it’s far more than you have already.”

As if his anger was suddenly washed away, the cop broke out into a huge smile. He was here, so he might as well make the best of it. He slapped his hands together, rubbing them vigorously. “You guys got a plan?”

“Working on it,” Michael said.

“
Working
on it?” Busch’s grin vanished. “Some team. What were you going to do, go in, flash a cross and say, ‘Hand over those keys’?”

The storm returned, the hard rain washing away the last remnants of fog. Simon was placing multiple crosses around the hotel room, praying as he went. Candles with a Latin inscription carved into them were burning in one corner, casting a luminous glow that gave the impression of some holy force field encircling them. The hotel room’s spartan decor had been vanquished by an extreme Gothic feel, one that Busch would have found laughable if the other two men weren’t so damn serious.

“May I ask what you’re doing?” Busch said, stretching out on one of the beds, beer in hand. He’d decided his drinking moratorium was over for the time being, in light of the insanity going on around him.

“Protecting us,” Simon responded, in a hushed tone.

“From?”

“You never see darkness where there is light. Evil avoids that which is holy.”

“Not where I come from. Who you trying to keep out—Dracula?” Busch rolled his eyes.

Simon didn’t bother looking up from his work. “Let’s just say it’s much worse than that.”

“You really believe those candles will keep ’em out? Protect us from the boogeyman?”

Simon nodded.

Busch sighed. “Yeah, and it keeps us in. Trapped.” He rose from the bed, stalking around the room, examining the crosses; he had never seen such a wide variety. “And what if you’re wrong? What if this rich Finster guy isn’t who you say he is? What if he is really just a tough billionaire industrialist with some warped obsession for keys and some big-ass bodyguards?”

“Then it won’t be so difficult,” Simon replied. “But, just in case…” He walked over to his bag, pulled out a Heckler & Koch submachine gun.

“OK.” Busch looked over at Michael for some help, but he just sat there in his chair, silent and still. “What kind of priest are you?” he asked Simon.

Simon returned to placing crosses. “Some priests care for the sick, others hear confessions, celebrate Mass, spread the Word. They perform duties where their strengths are best utilized, where the Church requests their services. Me? My talents lay on a different path. I
protect
God. If I had killed him”—Simon gestured toward Michael—“back in Israel when I had the chance—”

“Killed him?” Busch was outraged. “You tried to kill Michael?”

“You’re a lawman. You uphold the law of your town, your society. Well, I’m a lawman, too; the law I live by is the law of God. I’ll uphold His law and if an execution is necessary, then…” He shrugged. “Am I so different from you?”

“Don’t compare us,” Busch spat through gritted teeth.

“You were going to arrest Michael just for leaving the country, send him to prison for trying to save his wife. He is your friend and yet you would do that to him?” Simon turned his back on Busch and continued placing crosses. “You obviously value your law more than your friendship.” Setting the last cross down, he picked up his bourbon. “I value my law more than life. If I took his earthly life, he still had eternal life, we all had eternal life. But now…Well, I didn’t take that from him. Finster did.”

In a strange way Busch understood Simon, he knew exactly what the lunatic was saying. Busch didn’t agree with the priest’s methodology yet somehow he understood it. But that didn’t change things. “Don’t you mean
Satan
did?” Busch asked with half a laugh, shrugging off Simon.

Simon hated to be mocked. “You’re here to help? Then you better believe what I am telling you. August Finster is
darkness.
”

“Really?” The condescension in Busch’s voice couldn’t have been thicker. “You run around preaching your bullshit story, treating my friend like some kind of pawn. Whose bidding is Michael doing now, Padre? Huh? You’re playing his emotions, taking advantage of his situation with his wife. Exactly like Finster did.” Busch’s accusing finger came dangerously close to Simon’s nose. “At least Finster
paid
him.”

“Paul?” Michael sat up in his chair. He had seen Busch explode too many times and while he appreciated his defense, he couldn’t afford things getting ugly again. They needed to work together, to remain focused on the task at hand.

“He’s playing you for a fool, can’t you see it?” Busch demanded.

“I know what I’m doing,” Michael answered.

“Do you? Mary needs you, she needs you
bad
. I know you’re not thinking straight right now but I am. I got to get you home before you get killed.”

“Paul, I believe what I’m doing is right. I’m asking you as my friend: Trust me.”

It was killing Busch; he knew that he was here for all the wrong reasons. He and Michael had almost been killed, they were holed up in this room with no plan, and somewhere out there was someone or something who wanted them dead. But he saw the overwhelming conviction in Michael’s eye. “All right…But I still don’t believe all this Devil, Hell, eternal damnation crap—”

“Do you believe in Heaven?” Simon interrupted softly.

“That’s not the point.”

“Do you believe in Heaven?” Simon roared.

“Yes!” Busch shot back, furious.

“Then why is it so hard to believe in Hell? They are just opposite sides of the same coin.” Simon paused, calming himself. “You joke about that which you don’t comprehend. Hell is real and it is eternal.” Simon had his finger in Busch’s face now. “Hell is not some picture on a wall, some actor in a movie. I wish he
was
just a cloven-footed beast with horns.” The priest’s intensity grew, his conviction growing with every word. “Man has envisioned Satan and created Hell with his own thoughts: Dante’s Inferno, the nine circles of Hell, fire and brimstone—they’re all just bullshit. That is all man’s imagination. As we can not comprehend the beauty and salvation of Heaven, we cannot hope to comprehend the torment and agony of Hell. It is dark, unrelenting, and viciously evil. Hell,” Simon laughed, “it’s undeserving of any name. You have no concept of pure evil but you will….Before we are through, you will know better than any man who walks this earth what true evil is.”

Chapter 24

A
t about the same time Busch and Simon
were arguing, Dennis Thal was showing up at the Berlin United Police Headquarters. When he presented the papers for the release of Michael, confusion seemed to run through each successive officer he spoke with. The fact that each pretended to need a translator annoyed the shit out of him, particularly since the answer was always the same. St. Pierre was gone, picked up, signed for, no longer their problem. Each time, Thal politely nodded his head, then asked to speak to the next in the chain of command. When the chief gave the final word, Thal concealed his rage and left. The description of the man who’d picked up Michael was vague, but one detail made the man’s identity obvious: Michael’s escort was
ein riesig grosse bär
: an enormous big bear.