The Thieves of Heaven (Michael St. Pierre, Band 1) - Softcover

Buch 3 von 4: Michael St. Pierre

Doetsch, Richard

 
9780440242888: The Thieves of Heaven (Michael St. Pierre, Band 1)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0440242886 ISBN 13: 9780440242888
Verlag: Dell, 2006

Inhaltsangabe

The most closely Guarded treasure on Earth.

An explosive ancient secret.

A breakneck journey into the heart of the Vatican.

In a small, heavily fortified room just north of the Sistine Chapel, a master thief is about to strike. All he needs is an instant–to steal the most important treasure in the Vatican museum: two antique keys–one gold, one silver–that protect the secret of salvation….

But a surprise awaits Michael St. Pierre deep inside the Vatican, an ancient secret so explosive, it sends him running for his life—from the streets of Rome to a small stone church in Israel—with two stolen keys and a terrible realization: the consequences of his desperate, brazen act are far greater than he could ever have imagined.

For the treasure he has uncovered—the gleaming prize buried within the most clandestine structure on earth—is about to bring him face-to-face with an enemy more shocking, frightening, and insidious than anyone can guess....

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Richard Doetsch is the president of a national commercial real estate and investment firm based in New York. He is at work on his third novel, The Thieves of Darkness, which will be published in 2008.

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Prologue


Nighttime in NYC

Michael St. Pierre flipped the Steiner night vision monocular down over his left eye, loosened his grip on the rope, and continued his descent from the fifteenth floor. The darkened alley, now rendered green, was his landing site. He was careful not to look toward the big city lights in the distance; he couldn’t afford blindness at this moment in his life. The alley below was clear except for a few bags of garbage and a couple of rats on their nocturnal prowl. A thirty-yard jog across the street would put him over the ten-foot granite wall into the nighttime safety of Central Park. He stayed in the shadows of the buildings around him. He wasn’t worried about getting caught: the hard part was over and this particular corner of the world was deserted.

He was sixty feet from touchdown when out of his left eye–the enhanced one–he caught a glimpse of flesh. Soft, naked flesh. It was in the adjacent building, a town house, fifth floor. The dark, nobody-home, adjacent building sitting just off Fifth Avenue. He swore he could make out a breast. He averted his eye; he wasn’t a Peeping Tom. But it was a nice sight. A stone’s throw away. He never would have known, but for the night vision. He wasn’t worried, though: she couldn’t see him, of this, Michael was sure.

He continued his descent through the hot sticky night. But, like a siren, the vision pulled him back, if only for a second. Yes, it was a breast. Two, in fact. Well proportioned
above a trim waist, the whole scene bathed in green. God, he did love the view up here. The woman lay on her back. He couldn’t really make out her face but it was an exceptional body. He watched as it writhed in passion. Think of the job, he reminded himself, fighting the momentary lust.

He released his guideline, continuing his descent. He had invested too many hours to risk it all now over stolen glances at unsuspecting lovers. He would be home in no time flat if he stuck to the plan, safe in the embrace of his bride, who was far more alluring than this woman before him. Though she did possess a body like none he had ever laid eyes upon.

Without warning, as if reading his thoughts, the woman’s head snapped left toward the window. Michael froze, holding fast to the line, not a sound, not a breath. Had she seen him? Impossible. He was dressed for concealment; the area around him couldn’t be darker. And then his insides turned to water.

She wasn’t looking at him. She couldn’t. Her eyes were covered with a dark cloth; in her mouth was a ball gag. The twisting of her body was not passion but terror. He looked harder. She was bound spread-eagled to a table and she was in pain. A sudden rage filled him as he saw a figure poised at her side; the man’s face was obscured but the gun in his hand was not. This wasn’t a game: the woman was being taken against her will. And it was all happening less than twenty feet away from him.

He looked down. Only fifty feet to go. Freedom. He felt the small pouch on his back shift its weight. Six months of planning for that pouch; it was his future. He wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers. This was no time to be a hero.

But she was still there, the green hue of the nightscope painting her skin, her body straining against its bonds. Michael didn’t need to hear to know she was screaming
behind the gag in her mouth.

Summertime on the Upper East Side. Most had abandoned the city for the Hamptons, for Greenwich, for their little piece of what they called the country; their apartments left dark and dusty until September. The kings and queens abandoned their castles for greener pastures and fresher air, leaving behind Silicon Alley fiefdoms and Wall Street empires. It was a concentration of wealth unlike any in the world, all encased behind thirty blocks of limestone facades and hulking Irish doormen.

The imposing embassy was originally the home and offices of J. S. Vandervelde, an oil baron whose empire rivaled those of Getty, Rockefeller, and Carnegie. The Akbiquestan government bought the building in the early seventies not for her ornate beauty but for her impenetrable exterior structure: walls three feet thick, massive doors, bulletproof windowpanes. The Vanderveldes had known their place in the world: they knew their enemies better than they knew their family and so had their home designed accordingly. Johan Sebastian Vandervelde had constructed his fortress–eight floors of mansion, seven floors of office–in 1915, moving his family uptown from their Greenwich Village home on Fourth Street. Running afoul of his workers had grown commonplace with Johan Sebastian and there was a price to be paid. It just wouldn’t be paid in blood on his own doorstep.

The Akbiquestans also knew their place in the world and knew they needed a bunker more than an office building. They had upgraded Vandervelde’s former home since moving in, plumbing, electric, heating, and security. The only way in was through the front door, if you were willing to endure guards, scanners, guns, and the like.

But people tend to think in two dimensions, not three. An assault from above was never considered a threat, even when the Akbiquestan ambassador was in residence.
The roof was outfitted only with standard alarms on the roof doors, windows, and skylights.

It had taken six months of planning. Michael knew every corner of the building better than its longest resident. The Landmark Preservation Commission had been extremely accommodating in providing full plans and specs on the property. When they heard he was writing a book on the history of the most famous avenue in the world, they dropped everything they were doing to assist the nice young man in the Ralph Lauren suit. Not only did they provide info on the building in question, but on each of the adjacent structures. Forbes Carlton Smyth–Michael chose the alias for its implied pedigree–assured every commissioner he would receive an acknowledgment for his assistance. The building’s American security system was easily identified and access codes were purchased from the manufacturer for a nominal fee, as U.S. sentiment didn’t run deep for the Akbiques.

Like every good businessman, Michael was thorough in his work, dotting every i and crossing every t. He was every bit the professional. No stone left unturned in his planning, no detail overlooked in his research. Every foreseeable scenario was played out and provisioned for. But unlike other businesses his was a firm of one. No R&D staff, no secretarial pool, no VP of human resources. Michael always worked alone; in an untrusting field, you can’t be the trusting kind. Always performing below-theradar lifts: governments, criminals, the over-insured. Nothing could or would ever point to him. Always in and out in minutes, never a mistake, never a trace, never a clue, and, most importantly, never caught.

The embassy was down-staffed now that the United Nations was on hiatus. Two guards on duty per shift, a handful of daytime secretaries, and that was it. Everyone else had returned home to enjoy the mountainous desert land they represented.

The ambassador, Anwar Sri Ruskot, was a well respected general who excelled at diplomacy, but that talent ran a distant fourth to his greatest skills. General Ruskot was well-known in the black markets as a top courier, fence, and merchant specializing in the movement of antiques, jewelry, and paintings, all the while hiding behind his diplomatic credentials. As far as the general was concerned, the diplomatic pouch was an invention greater than electricity, the light bulb, and women combined. Rumors of his activities ran rampant in law enforcement circles but...

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Verlag
Dell
Erscheinungsdatum
2006
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0440242886
ISBN 13 
9780440242888
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
464
Kontakt zum Hersteller
DELL
azmaibenben@outlook.com

CL MODESTO LAFUENTE 41
Madrid
Madrid
Spanien