The Thieves of Faith (36 page)

Chapter 39

S
imon Bellatori walked through Red Square,
vacant in the predawn hour, and glanced up at a flag hanging near Nikolskaya Tower. The red banner depicted the dual-headed eagle crest of Russia, a symbol that dated back hundreds, even thousands of years, a symbol usurped from a forgotten kingdom. Another reflection of the far-reaching influence of Sofia Paleolog and her Byzantine ancestry. But it was a symbol of not only Byzantium, but its precursor in world dominance, the Holy Roman Empire.

Simon looked out at the bustling city, thankful he was here in summer as opposed to the harsh winters that seemed like God’s punishment for the seventy-five years the Red Giant rejected Him in favor of their atheistic ways.

As he looked at the Kremlin, his thoughts and fears were with Genevieve. Knowing she was being held inside enraged him; he swore he would cut down her violators without regard for any of the Commandments.

It had been over four months since Simon had seen her last, since she “died” at his hands. He sat at the back of the ski lodge in the Italian Dolomites, his coffee growing cold as he absorbed Genevieve’s request.

“It is time for me to disappear,” Genevieve said with a poignant smile. “My son will not rest until he learns the truth and possesses what I have hidden away.”

Simon just continued to stare, digesting the fact that his friend had asked him to “kill” her, to set up an avalanche to give the appearance of her death. Genevieve had never looked so sad, so tired. He couldn’t imagine the betrayal she was feeling, to have her son destroy everything in her life: her finances, her orphanage, her trust.

Simon and Genevieve had known each other since before he could remember. She and Simon’s mother were very close. When Simon’s mother was brutally attacked by his father, when his father carved satanic symbols into her and raped her for days on end, it was Genevieve who raced to his mother’s side to offer comfort while Simon had gone out and hunted down the maniac. It was Genevieve who continued to look out for Simon’s mother when Simon was sent to prison for patricide. Genevieve cared for Simon’s mother as she reverted to wearing her old nun’s habit and robes, slowly going mad. And it was Genevieve who was there for Simon when he was released from prison.

“Where will you go?” he finally asked.

“I haven’t decided, but don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

Simon knew that full well. Of all the people on earth, no one knew Genevieve Zivera better than he. He knew her background, her cares and joys, her wants and fears. Simon knew all of her secrets, at least he thought he did until that day.

And while he protected the secrets of the Vatican, of the things deemed not fit for the natural world, he kept some secrets even from them. He knew of the historic significance of the lost Byzantine Liberia and all of its texts and treasure. He knew that it had been sought by the Church for over five hundred years, and he had always known Genevieve to be one of its experts. She had spent hours with him through his life, telling him tales of religion, tales of life, tales of mysteries and secrets.

Simon had listened to Genevieve’s stories and vowed that he would not reveal anything to anyone unless she wanted him to. He was forever in her debt for what she had done for his mother. He would not deny her a single request, no matter how large or small.

Genevieve took a long sip of her coffee, rested her arms on the table, and leaned into Simon. “Before I disappear, I need to confess some things to you, things I have held back far longer than I should have. The first concerns your mother. About what happened to her while you were in prison, the path her life took. What I tell you now, I tell with the deepest regret. I am breaking a vow I made to her years ago.” She paused, gathering herself as if she were disclosing the death of a loved one. “A secret long held, but it is time, Simon, for you to learn the truth about your family.”

As Simon stood on the edge of Red Square, looking upon the Kremlin, he thought of Genevieve and her exact words four months ago. The truth of the matter shocked him, bringing into question so much in his life. Forcing him to ponder how his existence would have been different if he had known the truth. But it was a truth that terrified him, a truth that changed the context of everything in his world.

But it paled compared to what she told him next. She spoke in great detail of the painting that used to hang on her wall, of the map hidden within it, and where it led. She told him of its origin, her involvement in its protection, and finally of the golden box hidden in the lost Byzantine Liberia beneath the Kremlin, the destination that the map ultimately pointed to. In all his years, after all that Simon had seen in life, the evils of man, the darkness in the human soul, he had not known fear like he had felt that day. For Genevieve revealed to him the mystery contained within the box that had come to be known as Albero della Vita. A mystery that could never be possessed by Julian Zivera.

And so, as he stood in the square on this warm Russian morning thinking of Michael and what he was doing, of the lives whose survival hung on the recovery of the box, he knew he had only one choice.

Michael had to be stopped.

Chapter 40

T
he treasury was literally that: not a bank, not
overflowing with money, but a room filled with treasure. Michael and Susan stood staring at the sight, blinded by the wealth before them. Gold and jewels, statues and artifacts. Ancient pieces from a time many had forgotten. There were marble busts along the far wall, their dark eyes casting judgment. Jewel-encrusted chalices and crosses; necklaces of bloodred rubies, accented with night-blue sapphires. Elaborate swords, their hilts laden with precious stones. Piles upon piles of riches, the spoils of conquests, the possessions of kingdoms. A world of riches contained in a room of dark stone: the floors, the walls, the ten-foot ceiling above, as if carved from the heart of the earth itself.

As they stepped into the room Michael and Susan held out their flashlights but suddenly froze in their steps. The room was covered in a fine dust that kicked up in the wake of their stride. And they saw something they didn’t expect, something fresh, unmistakable. Footprints had entered the room and moved about, back and forth, as if left by a confused tourist. The single set meandered about the entire room before finally doubling back and heading out the door. They were evenly paced, their stride short, left by someone cautious. They seemed to stop in front of every artifact. Meticulous but with confused purpose.

“Do you think he got it?”

“It wasn’t in his bag. I doubt Lexie knew what to look for.”

“Do you?”

Michael looked at her but said nothing as he walked into the treasury. He played his flashlight on the far wall, the mounds of gold refracting the beam around the room, bathing it in a sunlight hue.

Michael walked around, intently looking at everything along the wall.

“Paul is in such danger,” Susan whispered.

Michael stopped his tour and turned to her, calling across the room, “I know, but we have to stay focused down here.”

“I thought he was your friend,” Susan said, already regretting her words.

Though Michael stood forty feet away, his eyes ripped into her before he turned away. The fear Michael felt for Busch was overwhelming. He tried to suppress it, to banish it from his mind, for it was crippling to think that his best friend was unwittingly walking into mortal danger and Michael had no means to warn him. Michael wasn’t sure if Fetisov had an ulterior plan or was working under the direction of Zivera. But whatever the case might be, he was useless to his friend down here and the only way he could help him was to finish the task at hand and figure out a way to get back to the surface.

“This is billions of dollars we are looking at,” Susan said, trying to change the subject. She picked up a golden scepter, its head crowned in diamonds, examining it closely. She put it down and picked up a golden helmet, its rim trimmed in animal fur that had grown brittle with age. “Why would Ivan seal this all up, why wouldn’t he have left it for his children?”

“He killed his favorite son, Ivan, in a fit of rage. He hated his other children and felt none of them worthy.”

“What a waste. Do you realize what Russia could do with all of this?”

“I think Ivan had a pretty good reason to hide this.”

Michael stopped at a pile of jewels that had to be a foot high, heaps of necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. He picked up a ruby necklace from the top of the pile. It was not the largest piece of jewelry but it was close. Michael figured at least seventy-five million for the exquisite neckwear. He thought of Busch and his daily lotto runs, his longing to be able to better provide for his family and have enough money to enjoy life every day. The man had continually looked out for Michael, he literally had risked his neck on more than one occasion, and all Michael could offer were words of thanks. It was more than a fitting reward, considering he had once again put his best friend in danger. Michael looked at the necklace once more, well aware of the last time he took something that was not part of his plan; it cost him three years in prison. Stick to the plan, he always said. But he knew the necklace in his hand was better than any lotto ticket. Michael knew a fence who could cash him out and set it up so Busch could get the money without even a tax consequence.

Michael tucked the necklace in his satchel and continued walking.

He finally arrived at the back corner where, upon a series of shelves, lay eleven ornate boxes. Michael stood there staring as Susan came to his side and saw the conspicuous dust mark of a missing box.

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

Michael briefly glanced at her before turning back to the eleven remaining. Each box was the same size: about ten inches by eight inches by six inches deep; around the size of two books stacked together. Each was ornate yet uniquely original, made of gold, with intricate carvings depicting landscapes. Michael examined each one up close. The craftsmanship was detailed and old; it was not Russian, nor was it Greek or Italian in design. The craftsmanship was older than history. From a time well before the thought of man’s empires even existed, crafted in a day when only one true empire was known: the empire of God, the Kingdom of Heaven. The sides of each case were the same: stacks of gold rope entwining the box, coming together in the front where there was a small key slot. The scenes on the top of each were random depictions of nature: rivers, birds, animals, trees.

Susan stood over Michael’s shoulder. “What if Lexie took the real box or…took whatever was inside?”

Michael picked up one that portrayed a majestic lion on his hind legs. Its jaws open, fangs bared, dominant and ready for attack.

“Is that it?” she asked.

Michael put it down and picked up the least dramatic one: a field of flowers and trees with a sun setting in the distance. As he looked at the golden box, he was humbled that something so small could be held in such reverence. But beyond that, the box literally meant the life of his father. Michael finally nodded to Susan.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Don’t you want to open it just to be positive?”

Michael looked at the slotted keyhole; it was beyond simple, a lock from a much simpler age. A technological miracle for its time but simplistic for a child today. And as he examined the lock he thought better of it, he knew what he was looking for, the map was clear on the box’s design. And besides, he had no info on the interior of the box that could help confirm its validity beyond its exterior appearance. “I know what I’m doing.”

“All right. Whatever, as long as you’re sure,” Susan said. She turned and walked back to the door. “Can we get out of here?”

Michael didn’t move. He closed his eyes.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I’m thinking,” he said quietly as he stood in front of the shelf of golden cases lost in thought.

Susan stopped and took one last look at the treasures around her, at the jewels, the gold, an accumulation of riches that would be the greatest find in history if they revealed it to the world.

After almost a minute, Michael tucked the box in his satchel and turned to Susan. “We have a problem.”

Susan turned to him from across the room, pulled from her bejeweled daydreams. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about air.”

“Air?”

“We don’t have enough in our tanks to get out of here. A minute or two at best.”

“How can that be?”

“We pretty much used it when you got sucked down the pipe.”

Susan put her hand on her head, as if she had a sudden headache. “We only need to get to the surface. That shouldn’t take more than a minute.”

“First off, it took us fifteen minutes against the current to climb the rope from the bottom to here. It’s about the same distance to the surface.”