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

by Joseph Nagle

  Charney walked to a panel on his wall; next to it was a small LCD screen that displayed the man who had just rung his bell. Without saying a word, Charney buzzed him into the building and walked to his front door.

  Charney had barely made it to his door when a series of quick knocks echoed through the foyer. Opening the door, the two looked at one another for a moment. Charney instructed, “Follow me, si’l vous plait.”

  He led the man to a small office just off the foyer. Before he could close the door for more privacy, the man barked, “Let me see it.”

  Charney eyed his visitor curiously, more so to size him up. The man was short but quite stout. He was clearly capable. Under his left arm, Charney could make out the bulk of his pistol; under his right arm, he saw the same telltale sign. The man was clearly a professional. But so was Charney. He hated this part of the deal. Everyone was nervous but acted as if they weren’t. One wrong word or misunderstanding could lead to a knife in the back or a bullet to the forehead.

  Never taking his eyes from his guest’s, Charney asked, “First, where is my money?”

  The man’s face offered no emotion nor registered any signs that gave away his thoughts. Simply, he put his hand into his front pocket and calmly produced a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Charney.

  “Your money was wired to your Swiss bank ten minutes ago. It is being held by the bank for final credit to your account. You may call your banker once you have given me the crown; he will verify the transfer and then, with a code word, will be authorized to release the money into your account.”

  “You are American, no?” asked Charney.

  The man didn’t answer.

  Charney opened the paper; on it was a US Federal Reserve reference number—a series of numbers assigned to all US-initiated wire transfers—with his Swiss account number attached to it. Ah, that would answer my question, thought Charney. The amount was five million US dollars.

  Charney looked up; the barrel of a .45-caliber Colt handgun was aimed at his forehead. Impressive, Charney thought.

  The man coldly stated over the barrel of his pistol, “Now, give me the crown, and the money will be yours. You have ten seconds.”

  The man pulled back on the slide of the pistol, readying it to fire.

  Charney needed only five seconds instead of the gracious ten he had been granted, and quickly he handed over the crown.

  With the gun still trained on Charney, the man grasped the cylindrical protective covering of the crown, studied it for a moment, and, when seemingly satisfied that it was, indeed, the Crown of Thorns, he put away his weapon.

  Reaching into the other breast pocket of his suit, the man pulled out an envelope, placed it neatly on the desk, and said, “Your instructions for your next assignment are inside.” Never taking his eyes off of Charney, he flatly stated, “The code word to give the banker is ‘shroud.’”

  Turning, he left.

  Charney watched as the man let himself out. He then picked up the envelope and gazed at its contents: a plane ticket, a map, and a photo—his next assignment. Smiling, he said out loud, “I should have guessed: Americans and their sense of humor.”

  The photo that sat atop the desk was a recently snapped shot of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. Next to it was the map, which outlined the route to Turin, Italy: the location of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, the home of of Turin.

  Gathering what he needed, he kissed Jeanette on her forehead as she lay sleeping and set a note on the bed stand beside her.

  He quietly left to complete his next assignment.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NEAR KOFE SOFAID

  AFGHANISTAN

  SSG York was afraid.

  The two Green Berets fell fast from the Blackhawk; they were seconds from death.

  The falling bodies of SSG York and CPT Scott sliced through the molecules of air at near-terminal velocity and without regard for the ground below. York’s eyes were nearly forced shut as the air slapped at his face. He struggled to keep hold of CPT Scott; tumbling, the men plummeted.

  Peering through the small slits of his barely opened eyes, York saw the fast-approaching ground. With his right hand, he fumbled across the webbing of the chute’s harness. Finding what he was looking for, he yanked on the release handle and braced for the force of the opening chute. He viciously squeezed CPT Scott’s body as tightly as possible, knowing that the force created by the opening chute may very well cause him to lose his grip on the unconscious man.

  There was no snapping force.

  There was no slowing down.

  York looked up and saw the chute was in a cigarette roll; it was still rolled up and tangled in its own chords. York’s scream was loud, but the roaring of the passing wind drowned out his fear and voice; he had only one chance. Squeezing his legs hard around the captain, York released his grip on the officer, holding him only with his legs. He reached up to the chute’s chords. His training took over. Quickly, York reeled in the chute, bundled it as quickly as possible, and then threw it off to his side. He could feel CPT Scott’s body slipping. The emergency maneuver was a last resort and its efficacy unknown, but it was his only chance.

  The ground was racing up fast to meet the two men; their bodies were being whipped wildly by their fall. The moment York had thrown the chute away from his body, he had reached down to grab the captain. It was at this same moment that the captain’s eyes opened; simultaneously, the chute’s canopy caught enough air to blast open and wickedly jolt both men.

  CPT Scott wanted to shout at the confusion that met his mind, but the vise-grip that York had around his torso wouldn’t allow it. Within moments of the chute’s opening, the two men slammed into the hard-packed earth and spilled apart.

  York’s breath was gone, forced out upon impact. The world around him started to fade to an inky, purple-black.

  The two men were unconscious. The sun traveled a lazy path overhead. On a nearby cliff, a small man squatted and watched. A homemade cigarette hung off his lower lip. He smoked it without even touching it. He wondered if the two men below were dead. Patiently, he waited.

  York’s eyes fluttered; he felt the sun baking his face. He tried to take in a deep breath; his lungs demanded air. He willed them to relax enough to let more inside. York bellowed out a long and loud groan as he coughed for oxygen; his mind slowly drifted from inability to full comprehension.

  Rolling over, York gagged violently. Afghani dust was caked to his lips. He wiped it away. He looked toward the body of his captain. He looked dead. Fumbling somewhat, he found the quick-release straps of the chute and released himself from the billowing canopy.

  Pushing himself to his hands and knees, York crawled to the unconscious man and rolled him onto his back. There were no visible signs of injury other than the wet spot over his side where the bullet resided. York checked for a pulse and breathing; both were there.

  “Sir! CPT Scott!” York shouted as he slapped the captain across his left cheek.

  There was no response.

  Quickly, York fumbled for his combat lifesaver pack and found an ammonia ampoule. Snapping it open, he shoved it under the captain’s nose. Instantly, the captain grabbed York by the wrist and shot up into a sitting position; his other hand was clamped firmly onto York’s throat.

  His eyes were dazed but were quickly gaining focus. He looked left, then right, and then at York, whose face was turning a bright shade of purple.

  Without letting go, CPT Scott calmly asked, “Tell me, why are we on the ground and not in the fucking Blackhawk, York? Where are the rest of the men?”

  CPT Scott held on to York’s neck for one moment more before letting him go. York fell backward onto the dirt; coughing, he spat out, “Dead, sir! They’re all dead!”

  The captain’s eyes shook; with a slight quiver in his voice, he repeated, “Dead? All of them—how?!”

  York responded, “The rescue team, sir. They wanted the flash drive. They executed the other men
and dumped them from the Blackhawks.”

  “Then how come we are alive, York?” asked CPT Scott.

  York’s response was to the point. “I fought back.”

  Both men sat in stony silence for a moment. York broke the uneasy feeling that permeated the air and asked, “Who do you think they were?”

  CPT Scott’s face showed no emotion. Gazing into the distance instead of answering York’s question, he said, “There’s a plume of black smoke over there; someone will see it. We need to get moving.”

  CPT Scott rose painfully to his feet, holding onto his side. He looked over at the canopy of the chute and at York, who was removing the harness; CPT Scott realized that he wasn’t wearing one and that there wasn’t a second chute. He stood dumbfounded for a moment as he realized that York had jumped out of the Blackhawk holding him like a sack of potatoes.

  CPT Scott opened his mouth to ask York about this but couldn’t utter a single sound: a truck had suddenly appeared from around a small hill; the driver slammed on the brakes, sending a cloud of thick dust into the air. An Afghani man barreled out of the truck; he had a rustic rifle pointed at the men and was shouting in Tajik. There was no time to react—in a synchronized fashion, both CPT Scott’s and SSG York’s hands shot up into the air.

  The two Green Berets carefully eyed the man; both were calculating, independently of one another, his next move.

  Suddenly, the man spat out recognizable words in broken English. Patting one hand to his own chest, he said, “Frend…Frend…”

  He then pointed the business end of the rifle into the sky and pantomimed a helicopter while saying, “Wop, wop; boom. Wop, wop; boom.”

  It took York a moment, but he understood. “Sir, I think he’s saying that he is a friend, and that he saw the helicopter crash.”

  The man continued his pantomiming; pointing at the two men, he made a gesture mimicking the two men parachuting and said, “You, fall. Wop, wop.”

  York put down his hands and moved closer; the Afghani man seemed uneasy. York saw this and, pointing to himself, said, “Me. Friend. Me fall, wop, wop.”

  This made the Afghani happy; his mouth stretched into a broad smile that accentuated the leathered creases of his eyes and showed the crooked blackness of his teeth. He gestured to the men and to his truck.

  York looked at CPT Scott who, in turn, nodded in the affirmative.

  In the small truck, the three men sat shoulder to shoulder, tightly packed. York said to the Afghani, “Phone?”

  The man understood and vigorously nodded his head as he quietly repeated, “Fone.”

  The Afghani man drove without haste; the truck’s engine roared on straight sections of the road, and corners were not seen as obstacles as he drove around them without touching his brakes. His eyes scanned repetitively back and forth; he was clearly worried. If they ran into any local warlords or al-Qaeda, not only would they all be killed, but also every member of the man’s family.

  Nearly twenty minutes had passed when the truck turned sharply up a neatly hidden dirt driveway. The man’s home typified those found in the harsh countryside. It was small with mud-caked walls and had only two rooms.

  When the truck stopped, he jumped out and shouted, “Fone. Come. Fone.”

  The man’s home was as sparse on the interior as the exterior was dilapidated. In the corner was a small table; atop it was a rotary phone. York ran to it, sure that there would be no dial tone, but surprised when its sound filled his ear. He looked to the captain and nodded. CPT Scott didn’t acknowledge him; he was watching the Afghani closely: he was trained not to trust him.

  Without taking his eyes off the old man, CPT Scott asked, “York, who are you going to call?”

  “An old friend, sir.”

  York dialed the country code for the United States, not really believing that the call would go through, and then followed it with the prefix for Colorado and a number that he knew quite well.

  He was surprised when he heard a ring, and even more surprised when it was answered: “CORe Center, NORAD. Secured line. CPT Williams speaking; how may I help you, sir or ma’am?”

  Holy shit! Williams still works at CORe! Even though York had just been involved in an attack by al-Qaeda, fought two men in a crashing Blackhawk, and jumped blindly into the sky with one parachute for two men, his thoughts immediately floated to an image of CPT Williams’s perfectly shaped breasts. Such is the brain of man.

  “Ma’am, it’s York! Do you remember me? A few years back, we worked together at CORe.”

  “Of course I do, York; how could I forget. It’s been a while, but what the hell are you doing calling me on this secured line?!”

  “Ma’am, it’s an emergency. I need your help.”

  “Where are you calling me from? I heard you were with Special Ops. What the hell is going on, York?”

  “There’s no time to explain. I need you to call someone for me; I need it done now!”

  CPT Williams wasn’t sure what to do; there was no protocol for this. “York, I don’t want any UCMJ on my record; you know what an Article 15 would do to my career?”

  York interrupted and gruffly said, “Listen, Captain. I am in Afghanistan. CPT Scott is with me; he’s been shot. When we were extricated, we were attacked by our own troops. They killed most of our team. That’s all I can tell you. I am begging you—forget for one moment the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and please make a call for me! You have to trust me!”

  Shit! CPT Williams thought.

  Looking around, she noticed that no one was paying her any attention. She thought back to those tense moments when York and CPT Scott had worked with her at CORe. CPT Scott was the executive officer at the time, and her commander, and York a lowly private. In the span of twenty-four hours, she had watched York go from just another insolent private to hero. He had guided a CIA officer by satellite to safety, not once, but twice. Not only did he save the man’s life, but York had been instrumental in helping the CIA officer stop forty-eight nuclear warheads from impacting on the United States. The president himself had promoted York on the spot and awarded him with the nation’s highest non-wartime medal. Of course she trusted him.

  “Who am I calling, York? Hurry, I don’t have much time!”

  York felt a wave of relief and said, “Go into the archives; find the file on the professor. Call his private number.”

  When CPT Scott heard this, he shot a stony glare at York. York ignored him.

  CPT Williams typed feverishly; small beads of sweat began to line the thin, blond hairs of her brow. Soon, she found what York wanted and said, “I’ve got it. I am dialing now.”

  Placing the call, she put York in conference with the line. A man answered after the second ring.

  She didn’t hang up. If this was going to come back and bite her in the ass, at least she wanted to know why.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  POST EXCHANGE,

  82ND ABN DIV

  FAYETTEVILLE, NC

  Elizabeth H. York was aware that the soldier—the paratrooper—was staring at her. She was accustomed to this, but still wished that she had changed out of her yoga clothes and into something less revealing.

  The place was crawling with soldiers and paratroopers.

  Fayetteville, North Carolina is a small—and almost backcountry—city co-located with Ft. Bragg: home of the 82nd Airborne Division and the 7th Special Forces Group, her husband’s current-duty assignment. As such, the amount of testosterone within a twenty-mile radius was enough to fill a number of small states (and probably immaculately impregnate all of the willing).

  The paratrooper that ogled her was more awkward than he was young; he was as cliché as could be, and she did what every woman does in this situation: she walked quickly by and ignored him.

  As she walked through the Post Exchange, she kept her stride fast, but she noticed he was following her.

  Great, she thought, this is all that I need right now. Another swinging prick that thinks jumping
out of planes impresses every woman he sees.

  Elizabeth was used to the way men stared at her—from the moment she had grown breasts, it had never ceased. It was bad enough in general, but she also knew there was a direct and linear correlation between its intensity and the proximity of any military installation.

  To the slight defense of the drooling paratrooper in tow, Elizabeth was more than beautiful: she was exquisite. It didn’t help that she was wearing a very tight and revealing outfit. No curve, crevice, or part of her body was hidden or left to a man’s imagination. She had just left the yoga studio, and the PX was to be a quick stop on her way home.

  Tall and lean, her tanned skin was an appetizing shade of light caramel; her shape was certainly better than most. The better part of each day was spent running or doing yoga; it was her way of passing the time until her husband—SSG Jonathon York—would be safely at home.

  Elizabeth picked up her pace; she was tired and extremely thirsty—she had forgotten to bring fluids to class, hence the visit to the PX. North Carolina was grotesquely hot this time of year and beyond humid, today in particular. Elizabeth had just finished a grueling ninety-minute session of advanced core power yoga, and every muscle in her body ached. The session had been conducted at one hundred and two degrees and had squeezed every ounce of available fluid from her pores.

  All she wanted was her favorite electrolyte drink and to be left alone.

  But the paratrooper couldn’t help himself.

  He had seen her walk into the PX and had nearly dropped the sandwich he was casually eating. He saw the way that her lightly muscled body rippled with each step as it interplayed with the rhythmic, lascivious movements of her breasts: he had been instantly aroused.

  It wasn’t his fault really. He was a whisper from nineteen and fell instantly in love, unable to differentiate the feeling from lust.

  With no control of his egotistical, self-confident demeanor, he reacted in the manner that any red-blooded, testosterone-filled paratrooper would do: he followed her with his tongue nearly wagging.