The Thieves of Faith Read Free Page B

the door closed behind him without even a click . Through Genevieve’s info and his considerable contacts in the underworld, Michael had been able to piece together Belange’s current address and confirm the pending transaction. Purchasing the blueprints of the building proved far more trouble and he had only completed their review in the last hour.
    Michael peered down the hundred-year-old dark elevator shaft; stale earthen odors wafted up, assaulting his senses. He pulled the spring-loaded descent cam from his bag and affixed it to the elevator frame that ran across the ceiling. He clipped his climbing harness to the descent line, checked the pack on his back, and silently dropped six stories into darkness. The cam dropped him at a rate of descent controlled by the remote in his hand. The cam was not so much for going down but for the quick rubber-band-like effect it would have as it pulled him out of the basement for his hopefully successful exit.
    He slowed to a stop two inches short of the roof of the elevator cab, which was parked for the night in the subbasement. He stood on the elevator and placed his ear against the cold metal door. Greeted with silence, he gingerly released the doors, sliding them back on their tracks, and climbed into the dark hallway.
     
     
     
    The art world, like all business, is about the profit. A car, a computer, even a prostitute is of greatest value when it is fresh and new, unmarred by age, wear and tear, and life. The value of a work of art, on the other hand, like a fine wine, takes time to appreciate. It is only when its creator is deceased, unable to reap the true rewards of his soul’s creation, that a masterpiece achieves its veritable worth. Painting, like most art, is accomplished through the interpretation of the artist: seen through his eyes and his mind, filtered through his soul, and expressed through his heart. Each work is a unique labor of love, each one a child to be loved, to be proud of, wrought by the pain and suffering of creation. And yet with all of the hard work it is rarely the artist who reaps the rewards of his efforts, of his offspring’s potential. It is the investor, the one with the money, the one who knows how to exploit the marketplace, who enjoys the spoils: individuals who wouldn’t know the difference between a canvas and a piece of paper, a paintbrush and a fountain pen, ink and oil. While they may appreciate what they trade in, it is really the sense of possession that fills them with pride. For they possess a unique object, a one-of-a-kind, unable to be reproduced by its deceased creator.
    It is the desire to obtain the unattainable that drives the true collector. To possess what others cannot. Items thought long gone, lost to time, to history, to wars and ravage. And as the economic model dictates, price is truly a function of supply and demand.
    The Bequest by Chaucer Govier represented the height of the artist’s career, a true masterpiece in every sense of the word. It was considered one of his two greatest works, of such exquisite beauty and emotion he knew he could never equal its perfection. He had briefly been blessed by God with an insight into creation and had come away with a divine achievement.
    Govier was not a well-known artist, but in the days to come his story would make headlines. The diary of his sister had recently been found and authenticated. While the diary detailed Govier’s life, it was the final page that would capture the world’s interest. It was an account of his death in 1610 that would turn the art world into a feeding frenzy. Govier’s life rivaled van Gogh’s in its drama.
    To pay for his paint, Govier served as a handyman for the Trinity monastery. Every week he would ride up into the Highlands of Scotland, bringing goods to the monks and performing minor repairs. It was on a Sunday, while applying pitch to a leak in the roof, that he struck up a conversation with a dying monk by the name of Zhitnik. Govier