The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels)

by Joseph Nagle

  “MSG Bryan, prepare the team to move!” ordered CPT Scott.

  “Yes, sir!” replied MSG Bryan. Bryan then turned to the team and said, “Men, it’s only a mile to the cave entrance, but the terrain is treacherous. We will be slow moving. Watch your footing—if you twist an ankle or bust a leg, you’re gonna have to hop yo ass off this mountain, cuz I sure as hell ain’t gonna carry any of ya!”

  CPT Scott knew MSG Bryan was serious, but that didn’t stop a few of the men from laughing a bit. This was good, he thought, it meant they were loose and confident, but focused.

  The engineers sergeant, SGT Thelonius Rupert Dwayne, or Thad for short, unfolded the telescopic buttstock of his 12-gauge Benelli M4 semi-automatic shotgun. The weapon looked small in his oversized hands and just as diminutive next to his thick arms. He gave it a pump before saying, “Let’s move, I want to be back to Salerno before dinner. I hear they’re serving #12 MREs tonight: veggie burgers!”

  Chief Warrant Officer (CWO4) Packard, Alpha team’s team leader and second in command to CPT Scott, looked quizzically at the beefy engineers sergeant and spat out, “Thad, I’ll never understand just how in the hell you got so big chewin’ on sprouts and leaves.”

  Thad shot back, “The same way elephants and rhinos did, Chief.”

  MSG Bryan interjected, “Alpha team, let’s move out!”

  Obediently, and without question, the men of Alpha team fanned out in a well-trained choreography. The loose moments were over. Inside of each highly trained Special Forces soldier, an unseen switch had been flipped. Their demeanors shifted. Their faces bore the seriousness of the mission. Their professional sides took over. Each man took his place without order. Soon, the twelve men dissolved into the wood line of the mountain forest, and any sign of them quickly disappeared as if they had never been there.

  York took the point.

  About one kilometer to the team’s east, Abu Mohammed Ibrahim lowered his binoculars, closed his eyes, and whispered a silent prayer for the two martyrs on the hill. When he opened them, he turned around and looked with steely eyes from one soldier to the next. Not one man dared speak: they awaited only his orders.

  Ibrahim’s gaze never weakened as he purposely found the face of each man; when he was sure that he had all of their attention, he said, “We will move out in one hour.”

  Turning, he put the binoculars back to his eyes and watched the Green Berets disappear into the wood line. He thought quietly: My men will not have died in vain.

  Insha’Allah.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PLACE DAUPHIN

  PARIS, FRANCE

  Paris was unusually cold for this time of year; a surprise overnight gale from the north had brought a cold mass of low pressure. The snap of the chill from the swirling wind had a certain bite to it and stung as it slapped the already reddened cheeks of the hardened, young policeman.

  Adjoint Brigadier-Chef of the meréechaussée—Master Corporal of the Gendarmerie Nationale—Philippe Jean Cocteau was in Paris’s 1st arrondissement standing—suffering really—in the middle of Place Dauphine. With futility, he squeezed the pale blue collar of his uniform shirt tighter to his neck, hoping that it would have some effect against the cold. It had none.

  He wore the face of a man much older than his thirty-two years; the creases that started from the corners of his eyes and that ran the length of his cheeks told of his many days as a policeman who had been relentlessly exposed to the differing elements of nature. Under the brim of his round, distinctive kepi, his hairline told the same story: premature male-pattern baldness, thinning locks of once thick, curly black hair, and growing speckles of gray. His only prominent features were his above-average height, and sturdy, well-maintained frame. His shoulders were broad and rounded, his chest barreled: his physical capabilities were his one saving masculine grace.

  The deputy chief stood in the square—which was really triangular in shape—and squinted his eyes at the fierceness of the bitter wind. He had been this way for the better part of the morning: Place Dauphine was his personal purgatory.

  Upon rising early, as was his custom, he had looked outside and saw the ominous, dark cloud cover hovering overhead that warned him of the cold to come. It was his first mistake of the day to ignore its obvious warning; it was his second mistake to forgo the assured comfort of his standard-issue Gendarmerie overcoat. But his wife had been absolutely positive that the day was to become warmer; that the clouds were supposed to break and that he would be far too hot if he were to wear it and assuredly annoyed if he had to carry it wherever he went. Obedience was the hallmark of a good marriage; he had put the coat back on its hook in the hallway closet and then kissed his wife adieu for the day. He had loved her that morning, but now Deputy Chief Cocteau silently cursed her name under his breath.

  He gazed angrily over at the western end of Île de la Cité, where there was certainly a structure or building that he could use to block the razor-sharp slices of cold wind. His nose was numb, and he could barely feel the sensation of the constant drips that hung from his nostrils. He had wiped his nose more times than he could remember, and it was due, again, for another swipe. He pulled the too-thin, form-fitting white glove off of the numbed fingers on his right hand and reached into his pocket to pull out his well-used handkerchief. He had trouble finding a clean spot that he could use to wipe away the newest drop of mucus. Not really caring any longer, he wiped his nose and wished the dreadful day to be at an end.

  Pompous, arrogant Americans, he thought. All of this trouble for some American senator.

  But Cocteau knew this wasn’t just some senator. She had just won the primaries for her party. A growing buzz in the international press claimed that she was heavily favored to defeat the extremely unpopular opposing party candidate, that she was destined to become the next president of the United States—the first woman to sit in the White House.

  Finishing his thought, he said his next one out loud, “Regardless, all empires must come to an end, but, unfortunately, that didn’t come before today.”

  Shoving the handkerchief back into his pocket, he put the white glove back on, leaned into the wind, and picked up his pace to get his blood flowing. Cocteau walked mindlessly around the square and nearby structures, paying little attention to his duties. He was reminded of his four-year old daughter’s hamster and its tendency to work itself into a frenzy as it relentlessly ran nowhere on its little metal wheel. His pacing was just as monotonous and never ending as his daughter’s hamster on its wheel. He wondered if the little rat was as unhappy as he was, or, perhaps, had just become resigned to its pointless lot in life.

  At least I get paid. He chuckled slightly at the unspoken quip.

  As he headed toward the spot on Place Dauphine that was nearest the river Seine, he stared across the waters at the island—one of only two naturally occurring islands in Paris. It stood in the middle of the wide, flowing river and was dominated by Notre Dame—the cathedral of the Catholic archdiocese of Paris—and its two distinctive, rising gothic towers. Along the seven-arched span of Pont Neuf that joined the island with the right bank of the river, he saw the horse cavalry regiment of the Garde Républicaine, a ceremonial unit, practicing with an enviable prowess. They were making their way to the other side of the island to the bridge, the side that was held up by the five-arched span that led to the left bank.

  Cocteau had had his chance to join the cavalry, but an untimely fall during the equestrian trials led to a severe concussion and an immediate dismissal from the regiment. His life was destined to be carried by the bottoms of his feet rather than the hoofs of a horse. It was of great consequence to his morale and the source of the quiet insolence to his duties.

  As he indignantly marched into the wind and to the edge of Place Dauphine, the incessant rumble of the fast-moving air over the openings of his ears impeded his ability to hear most things short of a scream. He couldn’t hear the voice of his commander screaming across the radio waves for him to
answer immediately. It wasn’t until he turned around and marched away from the edge of the square, with the wind at his back, that he could hear the high-pitched shouts of his sous-lieutenant coming through the small speaker of his radio.

  Fumbling, Cocteau reached for the hand piece of his radio which was attached to his epaulet, but his semi-frozen hands didn’t respond properly to his wishes, and he had trouble gaining control of it. Finally able to grasp it firmly, he depressed a button and spoke into it. “Oui, Lieutenant, sorry, but I couldn’t hear you; the wind is strong here!”

  “Cocteau, I have been trying to raise you for the past five minutes! I need for you to…”

  “The wind, sir,” interrupted Cocteau, much to the annoyance of the sous-lieutenant. “I couldn’t hear you; it’s damn loud, not to mention god-awful cold!”

  “Cocteau!” shouted the sous-lieutenant. “Keep your mouth closed; I am not interested in your intolerance of the weather. I need you to get over to Pont Neuf and check below the arches on the west side of Île de la Cité. I have reports of a clochard sleeping there.”

  “Oui, Lieutenant, I am on my way,” Cocteau obediently grumbled as he tried to hide in his shivering voice the way he detested the self-aggrandizing way in which his fat-bellied superior spoke—so patronizing. The effeminate crackling voice of the sous-lieutenant had a manner that grated on Cocteau’s ears. When he spat out a word, his fat jowls shook; he looked like a pelican finishing off a fish. Cocteau wanted to reach out and silence him through a strong chokehold but didn’t think he could get his hands around the man’s meaty neck.

  Although he disliked his superior, Cocteau was not displeased that the short trip to the quais under the bridge would get his blood pumping, and the dominant arches of the four-hundred-year-old span would give him some respite from the brutality of the wind.

  Cocteau broke into a slight jog toward the bridge; he kept his eyes on the space beneath the grand arches, looking for the clochard. His eyesight was strong, better than perfect; Cocteau picked up the dark shape of a man lying near the first arch. He quickened his pace and was soon gulping for air, but he never lost sight of the man that was balled up underneath the bridge.

  Quickly and noisily, Cocteau slid his way down the wet embankment, sliding nearly to the edge of the Seine. The clochard didn’t seem to take any notice of him, or was too drunk to care. Perhaps, he was dead. Cocteau cringed at this; his uptight sous-lieutenant would somehow see himself fit to make the dead clochard his fault. He would probably make him stand guard over the dead body.

  Cocteau shouted out at the man, but he didn’t move. Cloaked in the dirty and greasy rags typical of the homeless and the destitute, the clochard—as the downtrodden of Paris are often called—was content to make the spot under the bridge his current home. In the weeks prior to the visit to the Île de la Cité by the heir-apparent American senator, the Gendarmerie had worked extra hours to diligently clean the streets of Paris of the beggars, the prostitutes, and the runaways—of anything resembling a clochard.

  This wasn’t the first time the streets had been cleaned of any semblance to the sides of humanity too unpleasant to acknowledge. It was common practice, a well-choreographed effort by the police, and accepted by those whose misfortune had led them to a life where meals came from tossed scraps and a good night’s rest meant not waking to a shiv in one’s side. Many sat in the Paris jails until whatever dignitary, public official, or other overly important person left the city. Every available cell was crammed until there was little room left to stand. And when the jails were full, the rest were shipped to the countryside and housed into impromptu tent cities.

  Cocteau slowed his pace as he closed the distance to the man lying on his side. He eyed him carefully, looking for movement. He saw none. He shouted out, “Hey, you! Get up! You aren’t supposed to be here!”

  Again, there was no sign of movement or life in the man.

  Deputy Chief Jean Cocteau had no clue that what he would do next would end his life. He was only acting like any other policeman when he placed a fierce kick into the back of the clochard. The man didn’t respond to the kick. Cocteau had no idea that the eyes of the clochard were wide open and that he knew Cocteau was coming; that he had heard his command to get up; that in his left hand, he cradled tightly a fully loaded, silenced, and ready-to-fire .357-caliber subcompact Glock 33.

  Cocteau pulled his right leg back, readying to swing his heavy boot in a second kick to the back of the clochard. At the moment that his leg was drawn fully rearward, the dirty-clothed man spun around and sprang to his feet. The clochard’s movements were fast, too fast, and before Cocteau’s brain could process what was occurring, he felt himself floating through the air, landing heavily on his back. The clochard had placed a strong, well-placed kick to the sternum of Cocteau. All of the air in his lungs was forcibly expelled, and the little stars that go along with the blackness belonging to a lack of consciousness floated in front of him.

  When Cocteau’s eyes regained their focus, he saw the dirty man standing over him with a small pistol pointed at his face. The little pistol had a short silencer attached to it.

  “Take off your kepi; give it to me,” ordered the clochard.

  Cocteau said nothing, but did as he was told. Slowly he removed his headgear and extended it forward to the man.

  The pistol’s aim never changed; it was pointed directly at Cocteau’s face. The clochard snatched the kepi and put it on his head; it fit perfectly. He smiled.

  A wave of fear lapped through Cocteau. The face of the clochard before him didn’t fit with the clothes that he wore. The man was tanned, his skin healthy. His face was chiseled in the manner of an Olympian; he seemed capable. Cocteau looked at the man’s feet; the clochard was wearing the boots of a Gendarmerie officer. Underneath the rags he wore, Cocteau saw the creases of well-tailored pants. He was confused.

  Feebly, Cocteau muttered, “Who are you…what do you want?”

  The clochard peered at the officer and said matter-of-factly, “My name is Charney. You know me better as the History Thief, but that means little to you under the current circumstances. And with regards to what I wanted,” Charney traced his free hand across the kepi, “I have it, but I didn’t want to ruin it by putting a bullet hole through it. I couldn’t very well impersonate an officer of the Gendarmerie by wearing a ruined kepi, now could I?”

  Cocteau’s eyes shook with terror, and he raised his hand toward the armed man more as a defense mechanism than an attempt to stop the bullet. He wanted to shout, but nothing would come out. His vocal chords wouldn’t comply; his brain simply wasn’t strong enough in the face of death. The clochard pulled the trigger of the high muzzle-velocity weapon. The hollow-point bullet flashed through the spiraled tube and out of its bore. The silenced bullet tore straight through Cocteau’s extended palm and, never leaving its course, entered into Cocteau’s brain through his forehead.

  His death was instant.

  Quickly, Charney threw off the dirty rags he wore for clothes. Underneath, he was wearing the uniform of a Gendarmerie officer with the rank of commandant—a senior officer. He removed the radio from the dead officer and put it on his own uniform. From its sheath, he removed a long knife and cut away the dead man’s clothing. Balling the clothes up, he threw them into the fast-moving river. Grabbing the dirty clothes, he put them on the officer.

  Reaching into a small satchel that he had draped over his body, but underneath his coat, Charney pulled out a small and darkened round object. About the size of a large plum and almost the same color, the twelfth-century hand grenade still contained the dozen caltrops within its small belly that had been placed there by the ancient blacksmith who had first produced the antipersonnel weapon. Rudimentary in their design, but effective, the caltrops were razor-sharp, three-point stars that would be violently expelled in all directions when the grenade exploded. It had taken Charney nearly eleven hours to painstakingly modify the nine-hundred-year-old grenade: he had added a mod
ern pin and spoon, primer, a delay element, and a more powerful main charge.

  Squatting next to the dead soldier, he rolled him onto his side and then slipped the grenade between his body and the earth. Ensuring that its narrow silver spoon was snug against the dead man’s body, he slowly pulled its pin. It would be the misfortune of any man or woman to be found within a five-meter radius of the dead man when his body was moved.

  For a moment he remained crouched next to the deputy chief’s body, a wave of exhaustion sweeping through him. The last two weeks had been met with little sleep, and it was catching up to him. Night after night, after the tourists had retired and the Paris streets were returned to daring lovers and clochards, he had worked tirelessly to make sure that his plan would work.

  Everything was in place and ready. Stones containing plastic explosives were adhered to the apex of nearly every flying buttress of Notre Dame; their underbellies had been meticulously chiseled to create spaces that would hold the explosives. Searching for the stones that had the precise color and texture of those used in the buttresses had been no small effort: it had taken nearly a month to find a quarry with a suitable match.

  Additionally, small tanks of hydrogen gas had been cleverly buried into the earth of the crypt beneath the cathedral. The tanks had been no small feat, either. They were not made of any metal, lest they be discovered during a periodic security sweep of the crypts. They were made of wood and lined with a thick, nonporous Mylar. The Mylar wouldn’t contain the gas indefinitely, but it would hold the gas long enough for him to complete the operation. His biggest challenge had been creating a pressurized nozzle that contained no detectable materials. It had taken long, frustrating hours to manufacture the nozzles; using a combination of plastic, wood, glass, and thin filaments of copper and silicone, he had been able to adorn the wooden tanks with nozzles that were under his control.