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

by Joseph Nagle

Elizabeth was in the store and heading toward the cooler.

  He wasn’t far behind.

  As she opened the door to the cooler, she paused for a moment and closed her eyes, letting the frosted air splash over her face. She could feel the laws of physics in motion as the icy air raced across her face, trickling down her exposed neckline to where small beads of sweat were still forming. The cold relief continued down her front and to her sandaled feet.

  A slight shiver ran through her.

  Miniscule bumps of flesh tingled atop her skin, and the cold forced the roundness of her breasts to become even more accentuated as her chest heaved when the cold air filled her lungs.

  The paratrooper saw this and couldn’t wait. Ready to pounce, it was time to make his move.

  Elizabeth opened her eyes, closed the cooler door, and saw his reflection in the glass; her moment of satisfaction flashed to anger. Enough was enough. Spinning, she intended to confront him with a bit of feminine vitriol and a sharp lesson on the proper way to handle oneself in society and in the presence of a lady.

  But no words could form through her lips. She gasped loudly. She struggled to breathe. The world around her suddenly went black.

  Perhaps it was because the North Carolina day had been so hot, or because the ninety minutes confined in a stifling yoga studio had left her so dehydrated, that she fainted. But more so, it was because the small, flat-screen LCD that hung above the wall and over the left shoulder of the paratrooper was showing the face of her husband with the words Missing and Presumed Dead underneath.

  Regardless, this would be the one time that she would be happy that a stalker had been so close.

  The young paratrooper instinctively reached forward and caught a collapsing Elizabeth the moment she had lost consciousness.

  As he held her limp body, he became afraid. All of his juvenile thoughts were instantly gone.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  He shouted out for help.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SEEKING PROOF

  PARIS, FRANCE

  The room was small, smaller than Gerald had thought it should be.

  Numerous electronic devices surrounded him along with varying arrays of computers, monitors, and other items that appeared only fit for a laboratory. He felt compressed by the machines and the devices; they cascaded a wave of unannounced claustrophobia over him. It reminded him of the times when as a member of Special Forces, he and his team would be cramped into the belly of a plane, readying to be inserted into their next mission.

  He had felt claustrophobic then and he did now, an interesting reaction for an elite soldier and former Green Beret.

  Perhaps it was because he was so tired that he was so uncomfortable. The old man—the scientist—had asked him to wait in the lab, but his patience was growing thin and the small stool upon which he sat burrowed painfully into his backside. The last thirty-six hours had been without much rest. But he knew what he carried in the satchel was of an importance far greater than his own lack of comfort or need for sleep.

  He had been surprised if not appalled slightly by the thief’s methods—but the thief had to be admired for the accomplishment, one that took a number of skills. Bringing down Notre Dame, stealing the Crown of Thorns, and assassinating France’s president, along with the woman thought to become America’s next president, was no small feat. Gerald was sure that the man had been well trained; most likely he had a Special Ops background, too. Gerald recognized the telltale signs.

  It would be this decade’s 9/11.

  As he waited, he tried to not let the heaviness in his eyes reveal his tired state. The clock ticked slowly by, and his eyes fluttered as he fought his drowsiness.

  Finally, the scientist returned.

  He wasn’t alone.

  At his side was a diminutive man who was older than the scientist and whose age was revealed through the tremors in his uneasy gait and the liver patches of differing shades marking his skin. His hair was thin and his body even thinner. Life looked ready to escape him at any moment.

  Gerald rose to his feet in recognition. The new Primitus: their leader, the head of the Order!

  Unsteadily the old man slid his feet across the floor toward Gerald, propped by a thick wooden cane in his left hand. He eyed Gerald carefully and then slowly he held out his right hand; Gerald immediately took it, not surprised that it felt both frail and bone-thin.

  Without saying a word, the old man released his weak grip and nodded at the other man. There were no words spoken; the scientist knew what was to be done next.

  Gerald watched from behind in silence as the man removed the crown from its protective reliquary and set it gently atop an aluminum table.

  The scientist was wearing a white lab coat and protective, blue hospital gloves. Over his face, he wore a plastic shield. He handled the crown carefully and accordingly to its value, both historic and monetary.

  Gerald watched as he inspected the crown. He was using a large magnifying glass that was connected to an articulating metal arm. His inspection was painstakingly slow and long in duration. And then there was a small gasp. This roped the attention of the Primitus.

  The scientist never removed his eyes from the magnified series of thorns when he instructed, “Gerald, the lights, si’l vous plait, turn them off.”

  Gerald did as told. The room was bathed in black; within moments, the old Scientist depressed a button on the magnifying glass. A purplish hue glowed down on the thorns. The ultra-violet light cast an eerie sensation throughout the room and within Gerald. He moved closer, wanting to see what the scientist saw.

  The old man’s eyes were cemented to the image in the glass. “Curious, monsieur?” he asked, noticing that Gerald had moved closer.

  “Yes—what is it?”

  “Come then, have a look. But touch nothing! Understand?”

  Gerald nodded that he did, and then leaned in; through the glass, the magnified thorns appeared large and ominous, dangerous even.

  “Do you see it, monsieur?”

  The old Scientist spoke with a trace of excitement in his voice.

  Gerald did see it; magnified and bathed in ultraviolet light, one of the thorns had a spot that glowed much brighter than the rest. And then he saw another one.

  Even more curious, Gerald asked, “What are they?”

  “Blood, monsieur. What you are seeing is spot blood.” Without hesitating, the scientist instructed Gerald, “The lights, si’l vous plait.”

  Gerald paused; he was unsure of what he had just heard, and asked, “Blood? Do you mean Christ’s blood?”

  The scientist didn’t answer, but instead repeated his command: “The lights.”

  Doing as he was told, he turned the lights back on and watched as the scientist continued his work. Inside his mind was a frenzy of thoughts. He could hardly believe that before him was a thorn with a spot of Christ’s blood. The Primitus must have sensed Gerald’s thoughts because he said, “Gerald, what you have supposed is what we are now trying to verify. There is more that we need from you.” He pointed to one of the room’s cabinets that hung on the wall. He said, “In there, monsieur: your instructions.” Without another word of explanation, he returned his attention back to his work.

  Gerald made his way to the cabinet and removed a small package from inside. Opening it, he read over its contents, and then read them again to make sure he understood. Also in the package was a small electronic device; he knew what it was: a way to approximate the age of organic material.

  Gerald returned his attention to the old man in the lab coat.

  Delicately the scientist removed two of the crown’s thorns from the rushes with a small pair of tweezers. Carefully and gingerly, as if the small thorns were dangerous, he placed them onto an aluminum tray.

  Atop the tray, and already prepared, were a series of fluids—chemicals. He mixed them into a glass container, and when satisfied that his measurements were correct, he poured some of the mixture into a th
in glass tube. It was an aromatic mixture of benzene and a number of other fluors.

  As if his life depended on it, the scientist slowly retrieved one of the thorns and placed it into the glass tube, giving it a gentle swirl. After encapsulating the tube with a rubber top, he raised it high to inspect the mixture in which the lone thorn sat. When satisfied, he set the vial into a square mechanical device—a liquid scintillation counter.

  After shutting its door, he punched feverishly away at a computer terminal. When he appeared ready, he struck the final key. The machine instantly whirred to life and filled the room with a low, monotone drumming.

  He then turned his attention to the second thorn.

  The Primitus cleared his throat slightly, and asked, “How long will this take, doctor?”

  The scientist stopped what he was doing and quietly said, “Monsieur Primitus, the carbon-14 dating will not take long at all. However, the next step in the verification process requires the use of a polymerase chain reaction—PCR—technique. It will take some time. I have delayed the carbon-14 dating to coincide with the results of the DNA test. The results of both tests should be received about the same time.”

  “Is there enough of the blood?” asked the Primitus.

  “It is difficult to say. The test for DNA can fail for a number of reasons. Amplification of spurious DNA output can be caused if the blood has other DNA mixed in it or any number of foreign products. My concern is that the crown is quite old; degradation of the DNA could have occurred at any time.”

  “Are there techniques to minimize this?”

  “There are buffers that I will use in addition to a polymerase enzyme. They should help, but there are no guarantees.”

  The Primitus nodded, and then replied, “Very well. Please continue.”

  As the liquid scintillation counter hummed in the background, the scientist returned his focus to the second thorn. Gerald and the Primitus watched as the scientist stayed hunched over the table, working with precision and unwavering focus. He separated the second thorn into a number of smaller pieces. He then measured and mixed a number of solutions until he had the precise reaction solution at the ready.

  Next to the aluminum tray was a strip of eight PCR tubes. The scientist simultaneously filled each of the eight tubes with the reaction solution and then followed the action by placing some of the small pieces of the second thorn into each tube.

  When seemingly satisfied, he stood and breathed out heavily while stretching out the tightness and aches in his old back.

  Next to the liquid scintillation counter sat another machine. It was a thermal cycler to be used for the PCR DNA test.

  The scientist returned to the computer terminal and tapped a few keys. The machine used for the carbon-14 dating began its process, and the low hum that had been omnipresent built into a metallic whir. Turning to the eight PCR tubes, he carefully picked them up and put them into the thermal cycler to conduct the initialization and first step of the polymerase chain reaction DNA test.

  Another set of strokes to the computer’s keyboard, and the thermal cycler began its process to map out the DNA of the blood on the thorns.

  The scientist stood in front of both machines, unmoving. His hands remained crossed at his front, and his eyes unwavering.

  In the back of the room, Gerald eyed the Primitus. The old man’s eyes were closed, and he appeared to be in a meditative state.

  As the devices worked, not one of the old men spoke. Each was stoic and patient.

  Inside, Gerald was screaming for answers, wanting to know the results. His body ached, and his muscles felt ready to cramp. He had been sitting for far too long. He feigned patience, but had either old man gazed down at his hands, they would have seen that they were firmly clenched to the sides of the wooden chair as he waited.

  He scanned the faces of the two men. They didn’t look at each other, nor did they speak. Simply, one sat and the other stood; both were disciplined in their patience. He was impressed at their conviction.

  Time passed, and his anxiousness was overcome by his body’s aches. Almost unable to stand the quiet, Gerald wanted one of the men to explain everything. Inside, he screamed at the two old men but dared not verbalize his frantic thoughts. As if sensing his near loss of control, a low and nondescript chime disrupted the silence. A small blue light lit up the front of the liquid scintillation device.

  The scientist looked at the Primitus for his approval to proceed.

  He nodded.

  At the sides of each device was a small printer. A roll of narrow paper spat out of the first one. A few moments later, just as the scientist had calculated, the thermal cycler spat out its results, too.

  Ripping the narrow sheets from the printer, he studied them.

  It was then that Gerald noticed the man’s first display of emotion.

  Turning to the others, he said, “The thorns date to approximately AD 30-80; to the first century.”

  “And the blood?” the Primitus quietly asked with eyes closed.

  The scientist hesitated for a moment; with a slight quiver in his voice, he said, “We have his DNA.”

  The older man closed his eyes in prayer. Gerald was sure that he saw one corner of the man’s mouth turn up, forming a slight smile.

  He opened his eyes and looked slowly toward Gerald, and said, “I understand the thief is on his way to Italy now.”

  “Yeah.” Gerald’s response was quick and came out sounding disrespectful. It wasn’t his fault—he too was overwhelmed by what he had just witnessed: they had Christ’s DNA.

  The scientist eyed Gerald oddly.

  Gerald retreated. “I mean, yes, sir…I am sorry. Please forgive my insolence. Yes, sir, he has his instructions.”

  “Good,” said the old man. “I cannot tell you how important his success in retrieving the shroud will be. Without it, what we have just completed here means nothing. When the shroud is in your hands, there is one last matter that we would like the thief to take care of; all that you need is in the instructions provided. When the thief gives you the shroud, use the infrared scanner that is in the package, it will date the shroud to it origin. It won’t be exact, but it will be close enough for you to verify that what the thief is giving you is the shroud.”

  As if on cue, the scientist chimed in, “Make sure that he agrees to do the final job.”

  He looked at both of the men. “And if he doesn’t agree?”

  The leader of the Order stood with some difficulty. His breathing was coming in slightly faster cycles. A raspy wheeze escaped through his nostrils as he said, “See that he does—”

  With an uneasy groan, the old man finished his statement: “Otherwise, kill him.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CASELLE INTERNATIONAL

  AIRPORT NORTHERN

  ITALY

  Caselle International Airport Sandro Pertini was absent the hordes of tourists typical for Northern Italy, clearly a sign of the current economic woes. Charney’s flight from Paris was direct and comfortable. Fortunately, the plane was not full, and he was able to work on his plans without the worrisome interjections from lonely travelers sitting next to him. Charney was the only passenger sitting in first class, and he had used that unadulterated time to perfect his next project.

  Having disembarked, he followed the overhead signs that led him to ground transportation and to the Dora Train Station; it would be a short train ride to Turin. The thirteen kilometers between the airport and the town’s center went fast; Charney had nary enough time to enjoy the undulating landscape as it sped past. Not that it mattered much: Charney was focused solely on his next task.

  The squeal of the train’s brakes was his signal: he had arrived in Turin.

  Charney climbed down the train’s steps and stood on the station’s platform. As he inhaled deeply, he expected to inhale fresh, but he was met with the near opposite. Nearly surrounded by the dominant Alpine Arch, Charney could barely make out the outline of the impressive range of
mountains: a thick cushion of ubiquitous smog hung low in the city. Nearby, Charney knew the dark, dirty waters of the Po River flowed: the smell of the pungent waters, mixed with that of acrid, burnt rubber, dominated his nostrils where fresh air should have been.

  Although the city was as rich culturally as any in Italy—home to some of the more important and prestigious museums and the Polytechnic University—over the years it had been overcome by the negative externalities of industry; much of the infrastructure necessary to become classified as a “world city” was ignored.

  Charney glanced around and soon found what he needed. Across from the station was a small tabacchi shop. Inside, he quickly scanned for overhead cameras and when satisfied that there were none, asked the shopkeeper in simple fashion, “Gruppo Torinese Trasporti ATM?”

  The old man sitting behind the counter was hunched over from his years and surrounded by the stale cloud of tobacco smoke. Showing that he could care less about his customer, he raised his yellowed, crooked finger without looking up, pointing to the machine in the corner.

  Charney instinctively nodded his thanks—a nod the man didn’t see—and went to the machine. Putting in a one-euro coin, the machine coughed out a bus ticket that would allow him to travel for the next eighty minutes throughout Turin, more than enough time to get to the hotel.

  Outside of the shop was a bus stop. Littered with the cigarette butts of multiple users—no doubt most having been bought at the tabacchi shop he just left—the stop had a map of Turin with corresponding bus routes. Finding the one he needed, Charney waited. From the corner of his left eye, Charney saw a young, scantily dressed woman walking toward him.

  Turning to meet her approach, Charney knew right away what she was: a lonely male tourist’s best friend.

  The woman—the girl, really—that approached was young; Charney guessed that she couldn’t have been much older than sixteen. Her body still bore the hallmarks of her youth: toned, shapely, and desirable, but her makeup was cheap and applied with the hand of an amateur, and her malnourished skin was pale. The way she gazed at Charney, through him really—as if he wasn’t another human, but a means to an end—spoke of experience, of a life belonging to a woman much older than her true age.