The Thieves of Faith (39 page)

And then, starting from deep below, a subtle click followed by the crisscrossing crimson beams, the security lasers flicking back on, moving in succession, up and up toward them, heading toward Busch’s and Fetisov’s dangling legs.

The elevator jolted to a sudden halt, nearly shaking Busch and Nikolai from their hold. They were seven floors up, not the ten they expected. Busch could see light coming through the seam of an elevator door in front of them: sublevel four.

The security lasers continued their ascent, only two stories below them now, then suddenly they stopped their climb, lying in wait for the elevator to resume its journey.

The door of the cab above them slid open and they heard the gurney being wheeled out.

Busch could see the outline of the shaftway ladder upon the far wall, five feet across the chasm beneath him. Without a thought, he began to swing his legs back and forth, gaining momentum, and released himself from his hold. He sailed across the darkened shaftway and started to fall away, but grabbed hold of a rung of the ladder. He pulled himself onto the ladder and turned toward Nikolai. There was fear in the Russian’s eyes as he started to work his way along the undercarriage like monkey bars on a children’s playground.

And then someone reentered the elevator above and the doors slid closed. The gears reengaged and the car started to move. Nikolai froze, beginning to rise away from Busch.

Busch’s eyes pleaded with Nikolai to jump. Nikolai paused, fear contorting his face. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and swung himself out, hurling himself across the divide to the ladder, but he came up short and began to fall away. Busch held tight to the ladder with his left hand, leaned his body outward, and stretched his right arm out. Fetisov barely caught Busch by the forearm and swung face-first into the wall. Busch struggled to maintain his grip and swung Nikolai to a foothold just below him.

They both rested for a moment, catching their breath, fighting the temptation to look down while hoping the elevator wouldn’t head back down and scrape them from their perch.

“What’s on the other side of this door?” Busch whispered.

“Offices. A few labs.”

“How many people?”

“No one until eight.”

“Security?”

“No. Not until the upper floors, nothing to protect on this level.”

And as the elevator climbed away, the security lasers kicked back in, their climb up the shaftway wall slow, steady, and relentless.

Busch quickly took two steps up the ladder and reached across to the elevator door release. He pulled back on the thin bar and the elevator door rolled halfway open. He waited a moment and then stuck his head out.

The security lasers were now only one story below Fetisov.

Busch stared down a long hall stretching two hundred feet and quickly stepped in. He motioned to Fetisov, who still clung tightly to the ladder. The security lasers were only six feet below him, their red glow illuminating his face as they continued their rise, the clicking forecasting the security system’s freedom-ending approach.

And Busch grabbed Fetisov by his right arm, yanking him into the vacant corridor just as the laser flicked onto the ladder. Busch slid the elevator door closed, preventing their detection, drowning out the laser system’s constant clicking.

“What’s above us? Where did they take her?” Busch asked as he looked up and down the vacant hall, hoping Nikolai was right about the lack of personnel at this hour.

Nikolai walked briskly down the hall, examining each door as he went. “It’s the depot for official cars and trucks.” He finally found what he was looking for and opened the door to the fire stairs. They raced up and stopped at the sublevel three door. “This floor is going to have people wandering about; lots of people.”

“Guards?”

Nikolai shook his head. “No, military.” And he opened the door.

Hearing the chaos of gunfire over the radio, Michael fell back into instinct. Without thought, he abandoned their air tanks, tucked the radio away, grabbed the dive bags, pony bottles, and Susan, and in less than fifteen seconds was on the run. The light from his helmet led the way through the pathways and tunnels. On foot, on hands and knees, even belly crawling, they charged along the half-mile underground route following his painted bread crumbs back to the Grotto of Tsars.

“What about Paul?” Susan asked, panic filling her eyes.

“Don’t worry.”

“How can you say that? Those were gunshots,” she said through fits of breathing.

Michael ignored her question. He wasn’t going to waste any breath on an answer. He and Paul had agreed if things fell apart or one of them ran into trouble that the other was to get out, get to safety. Michael’s mind was a jumble of nerves and questions, though; he didn’t know if Busch was doing the shooting or being shot at. But one thing was certain in his mind: there was much more to Fetisov than either of them knew. If Busch wasn’t in grave danger yet, he would be.

What Susan didn’t know, what she couldn’t know, was that Michael would never leave his friend behind. As soon as he got Susan and the box safely away, he would be back. No matter what it took, no matter the price, even if he had to give his life, he would save his friend.

Michael’s lungs were burning; what had taken them a half-hour on the way in had taken less than ten minutes on the way out. Michael briefly glanced back at Susan, amazed at her stamina. She didn’t panic or complain, but there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes: she was running for her life.

The two dive bags attached at Michael’s hip pounded his legs with every stride. But the overwhelming thought in Michael’s mind was not the pain or the desperation of the moment, it was his friend’s warning. It was a simple statement and couldn’t have been clearer.
Don’t open the box.

Up ahead was the grotto. Michael had yet to see it but he heard it: the flow of the water echoing off the cavern. And then it was there: Michael’s and Susan’s helmet lights bounced off the water’s dark surface, sending eerie reflections bouncing around like ghosts across the walls. Michael prayed he wouldn’t lose his footing along the rocky path as he picked up his pace. Without slowing, Michael reached into his bag and pulled out a pony bottle; he handed the small air container back to Susan and pulled one out for himself.

They approached the water’s edge, only twenty feet now. Without hesitation, without breaking stride, they each stuffed the air bottles in their mouths, leapt into the pool of water, and disappeared under the surface.

The enormous garage stretched out for as far as the eye could see. Situated directly below the Arsenal—home of the Presidential Regiment, the Kremlin Guard—it was filled with black Mercedes limos, panel trucks, and SUVs. There were army trucks and even a handful of tanks.

A red strobe illuminated the darkened garage and drew Busch’s attention down an aisle where they saw the gurney being loaded into an ambulance.

“Let’s go,” Fetisov whispered.

Busch turned to see Fetisov slipping into a dark-green jeep. Busch crouched low and crept over to the vehicle. As he pulled open the passenger door, Fetisov started it up with the key that sat in the ignition.

“Are you crazy? How are we going to get out of here?”

“Hey.” The voice startled both of them. It came from Busch’s radio. Busch pulled it from his waist clip.

“Michael? Where the hell are you?”

“We’re on Kremlyovskaya. Where are you? Are you all right?”

Fetisov grabbed the radio out of Busch’s hand. “Listen to me. Get over to Nikolskaya Tower. On the far northeast side by Red Square An ambulance is going to be coming out of the gate any minute. Do not let it out of your sight.”

“What? Why?”

“Someone else grabbed Genevieve.”

“We don’t know the streets,” Michael said, his voice filled with a mounting anger.

“That doesn’t matter, just stay on them. The tower is on the opposite side of the Historical Museum.”

Three soldiers on their rounds began walking toward the jeep. Busch looked at Nikolai and indicated the approaching soldiers.

“Whatever you do,” Nikolai continued into the radio, “don’t lose that ambulance. If they get loose in the city, she will be gone for good.”

And the three guards saw Fetisov and Busch. They charged the SUV, their rifles held high, aiming as they began yelling. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, more guards arrived and before they knew it, Busch and Nikolai were surrounded by twenty troops with raised rifles shouting for them to exit the vehicle.

Chapter 43

I
n a single motion, Michael and Susan slid
across the backseat of the car as Martin drove at breakneck speed around the corner, racing for the far gate of the Kremlin. They had surfaced in the Moskva River after riding out the third canal, with a pony bottle in each of their mouths. They rode downstream for a mile, staying underwater, before finally pulling themselves out at the rendezvous point: an old overgrown patch of thatch and grass that surrounded an old dock. Martin lay in wait, the doors open, the engine running. The car was a ZiL, the luxury car of Russia whose status had long been replaced by Range Rovers and Jaguars. It was large and boxy with a 380-horsepower engine that sounded and performed like a jet. Though the black vehicle was a convertible, Martin left the top up to avoid anyone seeing his wet passengers changing out of their dive gear.

Martin cut along the Manezhnaya shosse, through the early morning traffic, and took the exit toward Red Square. He pushed the engine, careening up the service ramp, praying he wouldn’t be nabbed by the Russian traffic police.

The car came to a screeching halt fifty yards before the Nikolskaya Tower. They all waited with baited breath for the Kremlin gates to open; Martin kept his foot on the gas, his hands on the wheel as if waiting for the green flag.

“Both of you out,” Michael said.

“What?” Susan turned to Michael as Martin looked back at him from the driver’s seat.

Michael pulled the satchel with the gold box from the dive bag and handed it to Susan. “Martin, grab a cab, take Susan back to the hotel, and go get the plane ready. We are going to need to make a quick exit.”

Martin silently nodded.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Susan said, holding up the satchel.

“Don’t let it out of your sight. And no matter what,” Michael said repeating Busch’s warning, “don’t open it.”

Martin was already out of the door, standing there, waiting for Susan.

Susan remained in the car, staring at Michael, a realization washing over her face. “You won’t turn this over to Zivera, will you?”

Michael didn’t need to answer.

“How could you do that to Stephen?” she asked, her voice thick with confusion. “He’s your father.”

Michael reached out, placing his hand on her shoulder. Susan tried to pull away in disgust, but Michael grabbed her and pulled her back. “I have no intention of letting my father die. I just ask that you have faith in me.”

Susan looked deep into Michael’s eyes. Her body relaxed with relief. It was an unspoken moment, both of them lost. Susan reached out and touched his face, gentle, tender, and she smiled. “I believe in you…” Her voice trailed off to a whisper.

Michael looked at Susan and leaned into her. He kissed her softly on the lips. Not lustful; delicate, sensual, caring.

And the door opened, Martin stood there, holding it more to interrupt them than as a courtesy.

“You guard that box for me,” Michael said quietly as he stared at Susan. “Remember what I said.”

“Don’t open it,” Susan whispered. “I know.”

The moment finally broke and they stepped out of the car. “Martin, could you take my gear back to the plane?” Michael said as he passed him his dive bag.

“Of course.” Martin threw the heavy bag over his shoulder.

“Don’t know if I will be needing it anymore, but it’s always good to be prepared.”

“Once you find Genevieve, do you have a plan for getting Stephen back?”

“Of course,” Michael said.

“Do you mind sharing it?”

Michael smiled at her and shook his head no.

Susan looked at him a moment with trust in her eyes and nodded. “You be careful,” she whispered, leaning into Michael’s space.

“Don’t be getting on your high horse, counselor, and not listening to what Martin tells you to do.” Michael looked at Martin, who nodded back.

Michael hopped in the driver’s side. He watched as Susan and Martin crossed the street. He wrapped his hands on the steering wheel, grasping it in a white-knuckled grip, and revved the engine.

Twenty rifles were held high, aimed at Busch and Fetisov.
“Ne dvigatsya,”
the lead guard yelled in Russian.

“I may not speak the language, but that either means, ‘Get out of the car’ or ‘Prepare to die,’” Busch said.