The Thieves of Faith by Richard Doetsch

shaking his head.
    Michael sat there, every nerve on fire, every ounce of his being wanting to charge across the room and strangle this man who had kidnapped his father. A man who hunted his own mother, destroyed her world.
    “How could you do what you did to Genevieve, to your own mother?” Michael said, his voice thick with disgust.
    “As much as you may think I brought her to harm, you are wrong. I loved my mother, I still love my mother.” Julian began to reflect, his eyes looking inward. “I thought I knew her. After all, she raised me, loved me. But she had so many secrets, Michael. I never suspected…”
    “Suspected what?”
    “Do you know what it is like to have a family member who is virtually a stranger, who hides their deepest secrets from you? Do you know what it is like to have a parent disappear out of your life, leaving you with so many unanswered questions? Who they are, who you are, where you truly come from?” Julian paused, lost in thought. He finally looked Michael in the eye and smiled. “We now have something in common.”
    “What is so special about this box?” Michael reluctantly asked.
    “What’s so special about it?” Julian echoed with curious disdain trailing off to silence. He sat back in his chair and stared at Michael. It was a moment before he leaned in to make his point. “What is so special about the Mona Lisa, The Last Judgment , the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s David ? They are unique, singular expressions of perfection conveying the interpretation of beauty through the mind of the artist, yet all the while concealing the mystery of his own heart, of his very creation.” Julian paused a moment as he refocused. “What’s so special about this box, Michael, is your father’s life; if you don’t bring it to me, he will die.”
    Julian stood and placed his glass on the mantel before turning back to Michael. “You are going to find this box and you are going to bring it to me.”
    Michael felt his world folding in on him, as he had felt before when his hand was being forced. “And even if I was to do this, the planning, mapping a route, finding the exact location, the logistics, I would need resources, intel…”
    “This will get you started, give you a little history lesson.” Julian tapped the leather portfolio that lay propped against the chair. “You will meet a man named Fetisov in Moscow, in Red Square; he will assist with whatever supplies or further information you require.”
    “Moscow?” Michael said in shock.
    “Wipe the Cold War version from your mind. It’s very cosmopolitan, vibrant, a wonderful backdrop for a thief like you. As for mapping a route to the resting place of the box…That should be easy. Just follow the map.”
    “What map?” Michael asked.
    “The one you stole in Switzerland, the one concealed behind my painting. Don’t you dare insult my intelligence by telling me you didn’t slice it open and look with wonder on what I should have rightly been the first to see in five hundred years.”
    Michael’s body remained still, his eyes unwavering as the panic overtook him. He had cut open the painting and gazed in wonder—and confusion—at the hidden depiction, at the map hidden within. And as Genevieve requested, he destroyed the painting and the map, fulfilling her desire to keep it out of her son Julian’s possession.
    Zivera pulled a cell phone from his jacket and threw it to Michael. Michael made no attempt to catch it, letting it hit him in the chest and fall to the floor. “I expect your call from Red Square, at ten a.m. tomorrow—Moscow time.”
    “And if I don’t agree?”
    “Well, Michael, would you be willing to give up your father the way he willingly gave you up?”
    Michael stared at Julian, particularly his eyes, and where you would customarily see life, there was nothing. Michael had faced true evil before, and it didn’t look much different than this. The man before him had no feelings, no regard for