The Thieves of Faith by Richard Doetsch Page A

anything other than his own goals. And Michael was terrified. He fully grasped Genevieve’s dire warning, her fear of this man that she called her son.
    “This is your fault, Michael. Let’s be clear. If you had just left me alone, let my painting be, we wouldn’t be together in this beautiful home of your father’s as he is being violently dragged out of this country. I watched as he desperately struggled against my men. I will say, he is pretty tough for a man in his late fifties. But I can’t imagine his heart will hold up against the torture I will inflict upon him if you do not comply with my wishes.
    “I will not kill him right away. I will let him suffer. I will tell him that he owes this suffering all to you, all to the fact that you so recklessly stole something from me.
    “Parents, no matter what they do, inform our character whether it is through love or neglect, through acts of affection or careless abandonment. As much as we want to deny it, they are part of our foundation, part of our fabric. And as you are now coming to realize, parents always pay the price for their children’s transgressions.”
    “You hunted your mother…” Michael said through gritted teeth.
    “And I captured your father. And the only way he is going to realize salvation is if you do exactly as I say. If you go to the cops, he will die and you will be arrested not only for stealing artwork in Europe, but for his death. If you ignore my indentured servitude, he will die. Not fast, mind you, slowly, with a great deal of suffering. I’m sure my mother explained my contradictions, my depravity.” Julian picked up his glass and walked to the bar, refilling his drink. “She always so underestimated me.”
    And the blood rushed from Michael’s head, his mental balance lost, the guilt already welling up inside him for having placed a man he never knew, a man he had sought out, whom Mary begged him to find, in mortal danger. He couldn’t think of him as his father; Kelley was just someone who had turned his back on him. But that didn’t stop Michael from already feeling Kelley’s blood on his hands.
    “So.” Julian shook out his shoulders, clapped his hands together. His mood spun one hundred and eighty degrees to one of jovial optimism. “The city of Moscow sits atop a vast array of tunnels and caverns, many of which were man-made and date back centuries. Many of these tunnels are mapped and inhabited by an underground culture of the destitute, bohemian, and the adventurous. But there is one area that many have not ventured into for five hundred years. And those who have were never heard from again. That is where you will be going. Within this underground complex is a place concealed by Tsar Ivan Vasilyevich, a man who the world fondly called Ivan the Terrible. A library rumored to hold antiquities and riches beyond the imagination. A hidden secret in a place of secrets.” Zivera took a deep breath as if to calm himself.
    “Where underground?” Michael asked not wanting to know the answer.
    “I’m sure you have heard of it. In Russian it means ‘citadel.’” Julian paused, taking a moment to sip his drink. “But the world knows it affectionately as the Kremlin.”
    Michael let out a mock laugh. “You have got to be kidding me!”
    “I assure you, Michael, I do not kid around on matters such as these.” Julian’s pale blue eyes became intense. “If you are not standing in the middle of Red Square tomorrow morning, I will kill your father. If you do not retrieve the Albero della Vita in seven days, no more, Stephen Kelley will be dead before you have even had a chance to get to know him.”
     
     
     
    Paul Busch stirred in his sleep. He was dreaming of baseball and Jeannie. They were alone in the middle of Fenway Park with their two children, Robbie and Chrissie, who were inhaling hot dogs. The Red Sox were down twelve–nothing to the Yankees and the Boston crowd was on the verge of rioting. Every fan was