The Thieves of Faith (2 page)

She was three days into her stay and had resolved all of the problems she brought with her up the mountain. All but one, and he was a far greater problem than she could ever have imagined in all her years. For she refused to yield to him, she refused to provide him with that which he most desperately sought. He had tried charm and money, gentle persuasion and veiled threats, outside pressure and out-right intimidation. And through it all, she refused to capitulate.

And so he struck at her using his influence, his power, and his wealth to dismantle her life without regard for those affected. He wiped her vast source of funds away. Her bank accounts emptied, her orphanage was then disbanded, the children abruptly dispersed to a world of foster care. And yet she would not fold; her will could not be bent.

And then he came, in the middle of the night. He ransacked her home and when he didn’t find what he was looking for, he burned it to the ground. Her life was on the verge of financial, physical, and mental bankruptcy.

It was only a matter of time. For now, he hunted her without rest, relentless in his pursuit.

As the bearded man placed the last of the explosive charges in the mountain’s rocky face, the snow momentarily stopped, the curtain of clouds parting to reveal a sliver of blue sky. He looked down on the valley below as the last remnants of the evening sun shone through and painted the world a golden hue. The vistas ran to the horizon, peaceful and pure, an uninterrupted wilderness. But for the small chalet in the distance, there was no sign of civilization as far as the eye could see. And then the winds picked up, the curtain of clouds drew to a close, allowing night to creep in over the land, and the snow returned with a vengeance.

The man loaded his pack and checked his watch. He pulled out a small device, held awkwardly in his gloved hands. He rolled the small timer until the red LEDs shined 20:00. He pushed a button in the side. Moments later, within the carved-out notches of the rock face, spread at twenty-meter intervals, the seven charges glowed red. The first display read 20:00 while each successive charge increased its time by two seconds, their crimson glow already disappearing under a mist of new snow.

The man took one last look at the cabin and headed back over the ridge.

For the first time in her life, Genevieve knew fear: not fear of capture, not fear of death, but fear that the man would find what he was looking for, what he thought of as his birthright. For what he sought could not be purchased, could not be acquired, and he would stop at nothing to attain it. He was truly the last person on earth who should ever possess such knowledge, a secret long hidden from the world.

She knew the man. She knew of the atrocities he had committed, of the violations he had perpetrated against those closest to him, all in service to his growing ambitions.

And so she had turned in the one direction she had hoped to avoid, already regretting the appeal to her friend. It was far from a simple request; in fact, it was a request to do the impossible. It violated her moral and ethical being but she knew that sometimes even the darkest of deeds were needed to battle a greater evil.

She had nothing she could use as payment, nothing of value; all she had left were simple words. She pled to his heart, to his soul. For she knew that there were some secrets that should never be known. Some secrets were never meant to be found, never meant to be learned.

As the cold winds of night howled through the sharp craggy towers of the Dolomites, a storm rolled in, a blizzard out of the heavens assaulting the mountaintops, smothering them in fresh cover. There was stillness, a quiet, as the soft powder fell, absorbing what few noises echoed among the peaks.

And then, without warning, thunder tore the night apart: a series of explosions in succession along the sheer rock of the Belluno Dolomites. And as the force ripped through the mountain’s face, sheets of rock were rended from their holds, dislodging ice and snow as they tumbled.

As the echoes bounced among the mountains, finally dying off, absorbed by the falling snow, a new thunder began. And while the first had been deafening, it paled in comparison to this sudden roar. It grew with each moment, like an approaching train, louder and louder, ripping the fabric of the night apart.

And as the wave of snow washed down the mountain-side, engulfing all in its path, tearing trees from their roots like weeds before the sickle, there was the fortune that this particular section of the mountain had remained mercifully undeveloped. There were no villages in its path, no skiers forced to seek shelter; there was only one simple cabin, one hundred and fifty years in age. And it wouldn’t be missed.

Chapter 1

M
ichael St. Pierre ran at a full tilt up rue de
Mont-Blanc in Geneva, Switzerland, dodging cars and buses, streetlamps, and the homeless.

It was two in the morning, Thursday. The late winter snow unexpectedly blew in from the mountains and blanketed the already slick streets of Geneva in a fresh white covering. The storybook buildings, their colors muted by the fresh precipitation, raced by him in a blur as he ran harder than he had ever run before. It had only been forty-five seconds since he left the comfort of modern heat and the feeling had already drained from his ears. His deep blue eyes teared from the wind, each flake of snow like a razor digging into his face as his shock of brown hair whipped about in the chill nighttime air.

The heavy black bag on his back conspired to throw his balance off as he turned down the darkened street and cut through the vacant alleyways, working his way toward the historic district. He became lost in the shadows, his dark, tight coveralls blending with the night as his staccato bursts of breath echoed off the surrounding buildings.

He finally emerged at the back of 24, rue de Fleur. The nondescript five-story town house appeared vacant for the night. But Michael knew better than most that things of significance and value were often hidden behind the unexpected and mundane.

As the snow died off, Michael dug his fingers into the spaces between the granite blocks, testing his grip, thankful for his textured gloves that provided extra hold. He looked up toward the roof, the snow flurries making it seem as if the climb led into a ghostly white netherworld.

Michael focused his rambling mind, shutting out all distractions. He had less than a minute before the fireworks started; he had less than a minute to fulfill her dying wish.

Michael cinched the pack tight to his back and began his climb.

“
Nascentes morimur
—from the moment we are born, we die,” the priest said as his dark hair was wind-whipped about his face. He was tall, his shoulders wide. His rough hands gripped a rosary, his thumb rubbing the first nub above the cross. Father Simon Bellatori looked more like a grizzled army colonel than a man of the cloth, his deep Italian voice sounding more appropriate delivering orders than benedictions. “Some think of the body as a prison binding us to our mortal existence while our souls are eternal, simply waiting to be released from this earthly flesh. Some think of life as finite but those with faith, those who believe, are filled with hope and the promise of Heaven. For that is where eternal life truly exists, that is where our sister Genevieve will forever reside.”

The small group stood in an ancient graveyard on the outskirts of Rome. The gray Italian winter chilled Michael as he looked out toward the city, toward the Vatican in the distance. He bowed his head as he stood graveside listening to his friend’s prayers. While the few mourners in attendance clutched missalettes and mass cards, Michael’s hand was wrapped in a death grip around a manila envelope. It was emblazoned with a blue cruciform and had arrived exactly one week ago.

She had handed it to him seven days earlier as he opened his front door. She was seated on the front step of his house belly-rubbing Michael’s large dogs, Hawk and Raven, who had greeted her in their usual barking frenzy.

“Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” Genevieve said, looking up at him with a warm smile. She was dressed in a long white coat, her dark hair swept up in a bun. A single strand of pearls wrapped her wrist while an antique crucifix graced her neck. She was polished and refined, which made Michael grin even wider as he glanced at her on the snowy ground snuggling up to his two Bernese mountain dogs.

Michael stepped outside into the cool winter morning. “If I knew you were coming…”

“What, you would have shaved, cleaned the house?” Genevieve said in her soft Italian accent.

“Something like that.” Michael sat down beside her. “Can I make you breakfast?”

She looked at him. Her eyes were warm but they couldn’t hide sadness, an emotion Michael had never seen in his friend.

They had met on the occasion of Michael’s wife’s death. Genevieve had been sent by Father Simon Bellatori, the Vatican’s archive liaison, to express the condolences of the Vatican and the Pope himself for the death of Mary St. Pierre.

The fact that Genevieve owned an orphanage was more than ironic; it was no coincidence that Simon had sent her. Michael was orphaned at birth and though he was adopted by loving parents who had since passed on, he felt a kindred spirit to those who had been abandoned…and those who opened their hearts and cared for the lost.

Genevieve and Michael’s relationship had grown over the past six months. Michael found her to be like an older sister; she understood his anguish, his pain. Her words of comfort were always brief and subtle, knowing that each individual experienced loss differently, grieving in his or her own way. She never passed judgment on Michael for his past, saying that sometimes we are blessed and burdened with unconventional talents and it is to what end we use those talents that defines us. Michael was amazed at her perspective; her outlook on life was always positive no matter the circumstance. She feared nothing and managed to find goodness in even the darkest of souls.

“So, here we are, not exactly neighbors—Byram Hills being about thirty-five hundred miles from Italy. I can’t imagine you came all this way to borrow my snowblower.”

Genevieve smiled at Michael, a soft laugh escaping her lips, but it quickly dissolved. “I need to ask something of you.” She spoke quickly as if she had to get it out.

“Whatever you need.”

“Please don’t answer yet. I’m going to ask you to think upon what I am about to say.”

“It’s OK,” Michael said softly, hearing the hesitancy in her voice. He tilted his head in sympathy; he had never heard her speak so ominously.

“There is a painting. It is my painting, Michael, something that has been in my family for a long time. It is one of only two works in existence by an obscure artist. I thought it lost but I have recently learned it has surfaced on the black market. It contains a family secret, one of great consequence.” Genevieve paused a moment as she resumed rubbing Hawk’s belly. She stared at the dog as she continued. “It is not that I desire its return; in fact, I wish it to be destroyed before it is acquired by the one person who should never take possession of it.”

Michael sat there, fully understanding she was asking him to commit a crime on her behalf. Michael looked at the envelope, at the blue cruciform of Genevieve’s family crest, the moment seeming to drag on as the cold of the morning began to penetrate his core.

“I am being hunted, Michael. Hunted to unlock the secret of this work of art.”

“What do you mean, hunted?” Michael said, a tinge of defensive anger seeping into his voice. He abruptly sat up, listening more intently.

“The man who is trying to acquire this painting has the darkest of hearts. A man without compassion, without remorse. He stops at nothing to achieve his ends. No life is too consequential, no deed too unholy. He is desperate and, like a trapped animal that will chew off its own limbs to escape, a desperate man knows no limit, knows no boundary. And the path that he seeks, the path to where this painting will guide him, will only lead to death.”

“How do you know?” Michael said. There was sympathy in his voice, without a trace of skepticism. “How can you be sure you’re not jumping to conclusions? To hunt another human being…Who could be so cold?”

“The man I speak of, it shames me to say, the man who hunts me”—Genevieve looked at Michael, her broken heart reflected in her eyes—“is my own son.”

Michael sat there absorbing her words, not breaking eye contact. Her eyes, which had always been so strong, so confident, were now desperate, adrift like the eyes of a lost child.

Finally, Genevieve flipped open the brass clasp on her tan leather purse, reached in, and withdrew her car keys. She stood, brushing herself off, regaining her composure and dignity.

Michael silently rose, standing beside her, looking upon her. “I don’t know what to say.”