The Thieves of Faith (Michael St. Pierre, Band 2) - Softcover

Buch 2 von 4: Michael St. Pierre

Doetsch, Richard

 
9780440242895: The Thieves of Faith (Michael St. Pierre, Band 2)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0440242894 ISBN 13: 9780440242895
Verlag: Dell, 2007

Inhaltsangabe

Beneath the Kremlin lies a shocking ancient truth.
And it’s about to be stolen.…


Since the times of Ivan the Terrible, generations of Russian leaders have turned the Kremlin into a fortress within a fortress, stocking its labyrinthine underground with secret vaults, elegant chambers, and priceless treasures. Now a master thief has the ultimate motivation to stage an assault on the Kremlin’s inner sanctum. Two lives depend on it. Thousands of years of religious faith hinge on it. And a man’s conscience, skill, and passion will not let him fail.

For Michael St. Pierre, history’s most daring heist is only one piece of an intricate puzzle reaching from an ancient monastery in Scotland to a hideaway in Corsica—where a madman has built an empire of terror. Haunted by his own family secrets, and surrounded by the precious few people he can trust, Michael will take on a mission that will make him the most hunted man in the world. But when an astounding truth, buried deep beneath the Kremlin, erupts with shattering force, he may unleash a relic too dangerous to possess.…

Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

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.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One


Michael 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...

„Über diesen Titel“ kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Verlag
Dell
Erscheinungsdatum
2007
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0440242894
ISBN 13 
9780440242895
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
544
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Dell GmbH
6997927350
DE.CustomerSupport@dell.com

Unterschweinstiege 10
Frankfurt am Main
60549
Deutschland