The Thieves of Faith (11 page)

Michael nodded. “That’s good.”

“There is something I need to give you.” Kelley rose out of his chair, a bit of excitement in his movement and voice as if it were Christmas. He hurriedly stepped from the room and closed the pocket doors behind him.

Michael’s mind began to spin. This was his father, the man who had given him up, who had met Mary. Did she suspect the truth? Michael imagined so, her intuition knew no bounds.

Michael arrived without expectation, without thinking he would find his father so fast. He arrived unprepared, no list of questions or queries, no burning curiosity about his real father or mother but now, after seeing the man, his mind was a jumble, wondering about his father, about his brother, about the mother he never knew. Michael thought, with the display of wealth around him, was Kelley’s reason for giving him up truthful or was there something more? And above all, if Kelley knew who Michael was, why had he never reached out to him in all his years?

Michael sat there looking around, the library taking on a different meaning from when he had entered. While the room was warm and inviting, it appeared to have seen little to no use. Dust ringed the edge of the lamp’s light switch, there were no signs of newspapers or magazines, the wastebasket was empty. The shelves were filled with all genres of books: biographies, travelogues, novels, none of recent vintage.

Scattered about the shelves and tables were pictures of a much younger Kelley: holding another woman, who was not Susan; crossing the finish line at the Boston Marathon. There were photos of Kelley’s son at various stages in life: on a bicycle; with a prom date; standing next to his proud father at college graduation. But one thing was evident: except for the earliest of pictures, the mother wasn’t present, a glaring absence at life’s greatest moments.

And Michael realized what Kelley had been looking at, what had initially diminished the man’s spirits as they began their conversation: it was the pictures of his life.

There was a sudden crash in the entranceway that startled Michael out of his musings. The thick pocket doors slid open, but much to Michael’s surprise, a different man stood there, nicely dressed with a regal air about him.

“Mr. St. Pierre?” a tall blond man said as he stepped in the room. He carried a leather portfolio that wanted to burst its seams. He was followed by a large man with an overly thick neck who closed the door behind them, his back against the exit as if to guard against Michael’s departure.

“Could you spare me a moment of your time?” Though the voice seemed friendly and nonthreatening, standing in stark contrast to Michael’s rude reception on the front steps just a little while earlier, it was this friendly voice that unnerved him, the Italian accent sending a chill up his spine.

Moments earlier, the comfortable life at 22 Franklin Street had been shattered. Three men moved as one up the blue stone stairs. Though their central European faces couldn’t be more different, they had bodies like triplets: thick and wide, linebacker size, but possessing a surprising degree of agility. The largest of the three effortlessly carried a one-hundred-pound police door ram and, without so much as a grunt, smashed it through the knob, splintering the mahogany into the house. The men parted as a blond man strode up the stairs, a bodyguard two steps behind him; he walked through the shattered doorway and down the hall where he stood watching just outside the library.

The three men didn’t miss a step.

Susan burst from the kitchen, a bagel in hand. “What are you—?” But she was interrupted by the middle man, who picked her up as if she were a child. And though she kicked like a wild animal, exhibiting a great deal of strength, the man was not even fazed. He spun her around into a disabling hold, while the left man taped her mouth and hogtied her in seconds. He leaned down and placed the barrel of his pistol against her left eye. Her struggle ceased. The three men peeled off into separate rooms, heads turning, eyes wary and on guard.

And then Kelley was there, racing down the elegant stairs. Seeing Susan bound, silently squirming on the floor, he instinctively raced to her aid. But he never got close; the three men materialized and were instantly all over him. He tried to punch his way out of the swarm only to be felled by a swift blow to the back of the head. He writhed in pain on the ground as they threw a black hood over his head. Though he seemed dazed, he kicked and flung his arms about, striking one of his attackers in the face, drawing blood. But he quickly lost the battle as they tied him up. Throughout the entire ordeal not a word was said, not a scream or shout uttered, as if the whole scene was in a silent movie. The men were efficient, with an economy of motion and a seeming lack of emotion.

Despite the fact that Kelley was over six feet and weighed a solid two hundred pounds, the middle man effortlessly threw him over his shoulder. There was no struggle left in Kelley as the three men raced out the front door with their quarry into a waiting black town car.

Michael sat in the wing-back chair, his heart racing as he watched the tall man walk through the library. He placed the black leather folio against a chair, unzipped it, and withdrew a manila folder.

“My name is Julian.” The accent was Italian, belonging to a man who looked to be in his early thirties. He dressed in an Armani blazer, dark blue, worn over a pale yellow shirt. The man was polished and had an air of superiority about him. His hair was blond, collar-length, expertly cut. His ice-blue eyes possessed no emotion, laying bare the false sincerity of his smile. His face was almost too handsome and yet looked vaguely familiar; Michael trolled his mind but, for the moment, couldn’t place it.

Michael glanced over at the guard who remained still and silent as his Italian charge walked about the room, examining it as if he were there to purchase the home. “What do you want?” Michael demanded as he abruptly stood.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Julian said as he found and opened up the bar. “Scotch, beer, juice, water, perhaps?” The man offered as if this were his home.

“Why is your friend blocking the door?” Michael said.

Julian dismissed his bodyguard with a wave of his hand.

Michael watched the large bodyguard leave and moved toward the door. “Where is Kelley, is this a game of his?”

“No game”—the man smiled—“at least not to me. Why don’t you sit, let’s talk a bit.”

Michael stopped and stared at the man. Only those with power or egos traveled with bodyguards and this was a man who appeared not to relinquish anything; there was no question in Michael’s mind that the guard was standing on the other side of the door sealing Michael in. Michael opened his hands in question. “Where is Kelley?”

“Farther out of your reach than he has ever been.” Julian handed Michael the manila file. Michael placed it on a side table without bothering to look at it.

Julian looked at Michael, put his drink on the end table, and sat in one of the wing chairs, bidding Michael to do the same. Michael begrudgingly complied and stared at the man. They assessed each other for a moment before Julian’s face grew focused, intent.

He took a deep breath. “I love my art. I’ve spent years acquiring some of the finest pieces in all the world. A great deal of time spent seeking masterpieces thought lost to history.
Grandies Mon Chat
by Rugio,
Hamilion on the Lake
by Cvice. Some took years to locate, using obscure sources, paid informants”—Julian cast a glance at Michael—“thieves. Whatever it took to acquire my desire, I was willing to pay, I was willing to wait. Sometimes…as long as seven years.” Julian leaned back in the chair.

Michael sat there as Julian’s pause dragged on. “Seven years?”

“The amount of time it took me to locate
The Bequest.
”

Michael tried to read the man, realizing he was being pulled into a chess match. “
The Bequest
?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe you forgot. The painting you stole from me.”

As Julian’s words began to settle, Michael’s mind went into a tailspin, and the pieces started to fall into place. This man before him, this Julian, was Julian Zivera, Genevieve’s son, the man Genevieve was so afraid of. Whom she had called the most dangerous of men. Michael’s confusion turned to anger as he knew that this was only the beginning.

“You stole my painting, Michael. You slipped into Switzerland and stole a painting I spent seven years searching for.” There was an almost surreal calmness to the man and his words, so contrary to the situation he was speaking of.

Michael looked at the closed door to the library.

“You’re thinking about where to go, what to do. But, before you run”—Julian smiled—“I suggest you look at that folder.”

Michael glanced at the manila folder sitting on the table, realizing its contents could only portend disaster, and slowly picked it up.

“I own you, Michael.” Julian’s false smile dissolved.

Michael opened the folder and felt his world fall off its axis. It was filled with press clippings on the mysterious break-in at an office building in Switzerland, followed by grainy nighttime photos of himself running across the snow-covered bridge in Geneva.

“The pieces weren’t hard to put together. You”—Julian pointed a scolding finger at Michael—“were my mother’s favorite thief.”

Michael looked at Julian, his emotions running between fear and rage.

“I know my mother bid you to steal my painting. And I know you have what was concealed within.”

Michael said nothing, knowing that he had destroyed it—sliced it up and dissolved it in acid, forever casting its existence to the wind.

“I searched years for it and just when it was in my grasp…well, now I’ve got something better. I have my own personal thief.” Julian’s smile returned. “You and your talents are going to acquire something for me. You and I are going to enter into a deal, Michael.”

Michael hated bosses, taking orders, being at someone’s beck and call, and above all he hated blackmail.

“A deal for a box that I need you to find. And I am willing to trade you for it. Many would say it would be a fair trade. Not only will I not turn that file on you over to Interpol, but I will offer you something of far greater value. Something irreplaceable—something you have searched for, longed for.”

“I will not—”

“You will,” Julian cut in, his voice low, filling with anger. His face grew red, the tendons in his neck distended, in emotion so divergent from his appearance and prior demeanor. He rubbed his right temple as if it would somehow dispel his rage. “As I was saying,” Julian continued. “You will bring me this priceless, one of a kind antique box called Albero della Vita. A golden work of art, it has been hidden for centuries, thought lost in a place many would find terrifying to penetrate. But for someone of your mind, it would be the greatest of challenges.”

“I don’t need any more ego challenges,” Michael said, trying to control his quavering voice, his wrath staying just below the surface. “I don’t bend to blackmail. I suggest you look for someone else. Someone who has something to prove, someone with a greedy heart.”

“I don’t think anyone else is up to the task, nor will they desire the remuneration I can provide.” Julian slowed his cadence. “The payment for this is of value only to you.”

“What could you possibly have that I would want?”

“I will trade you this simple box for Stephen Kelley. Your father.”

And as Michael thought on this, he knew that this man before him, underneath all of his spit and polish, his subtle accent, underneath all his smiles and charm, was beyond ruthless. He was as cold and as dangerous as Genevieve was good, hoping to leverage Michael’s heart for his material gain.

“I’ve never met the man until today. And whether he is my father or not, I don’t give in to those who try to play on my feelings for their own personal benefit.”

“Of course you don’t.” Julian broke out in another smile and began 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…”