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

by Joseph Nagle

Michael replied, “York, I don’t give a shit if you were attacked by a pack of cats, call your commander, not me.”

  Back in Afghanistan, York’s grip on the old phone tightened. His face was turning a deep shade of crimson; the vein that ran perpendicular to his forehead and his hairline thickened and pulsated intensely. CPT Scott saw York’s temper beginning to rise. The older Afghani man understood it, too. Scott held up his hand as if to tell York to calm down when York, ignoring his commander, shouted once more:

  “Call my commander? My goddamn commander is right here! Did you not hear what I said? We were attacked by American soldiers! They killed the rest of my team! My commander and I barely escaped! I have nowhere else to go!”

  Michael could feel his own temper beginning to rise. An American senator had just been killed and scores of civilians were dead, not to mention that his wife was not happy with him, and he had missed a rather important meeting. He had no time to manage the affairs of the US Army.

  Before he could voice another word, however, what York said next caused him to jump from the chair in which he rested.

  York’s voice had found a sudden calm, and he said, “Professor, listen to me. Please, just listen: we were on a mission; we found some intelligence; the soldiers that attacked us wanted it. Professor, your name was on it.”

  Michael responded with trepidation, “Intelligence? What intelligence? You’ve ten seconds to explain, York!”

  “My team was on a mission in Afghanistan, part of Operation Salerno; in an al-Qaeda cave complex, we came across a laptop that had plans for an attack on an American senator—Senator Door. The plans cover an assassination attempt that is to take place during her visit to Paris; the president of France is a target, too!”

  Michael squinted. This day’s just getting better, he thought.

  “York, listen to me. A few hours ago, there was an explosion inside of Notre Dame—in Paris. York, the senator and the president of France were inside. They are both already dead.”

  In the small and dirty Afghani home, CPT Scott watched his young weapons sergeant’s face contort. Slowly, York’s free hand rose to his forehead; he watched as York put his hand over his eyes as if the action would somehow blind him to the circumstances of his situation, hoping that they might be changed. The young soldier looked as if he had lost his ability to breathe. For a long moment, he stood motionless.

  Neither man spoke; there was nothing but silence between both ends of the connection.

  After a few moments, York’s voice was a monotone when he said, “Professor, the intelligence links you with the assassinations.”

  Michael felt like he had just been smacked in the face with a brick. He said to York, “If it said that I am responsible, why are you calling me?”

  “Because I don’t believe it.”

  “Why not, York?”

  “Because it said my commander and I are responsible, too. Sir, we are being set up.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TAFT DINING ROOM

  THE UNIVERSITY CLUB

  WASHINGTON, DC

  The waiter arrived at the table where both senators sat in a tense, muffled conversation. Both men stopped speaking as the waiter drew near. They looked at him as if annoyed by the interruption. Quickly, he delivered the expensive glass of whiskey to the senator and, almost afraid, he asked, “Will you be dining with us today, sir?”

  Senator Faust dismissively waved off the waiter, saying, “No, not today.” He then impatiently waited for the impeccably dressed, white-gloved man to leave.

  Senator Faust was amused by the disappointment in Senator Steinman’s face at the thought of skipping a meal.

  Once he was gone, Senator Steinman turned to Senator Faust, drew himself closer, and quietly said, “We are screwed! Senator Door’s death—” he paused for a moment and looked as if he were about to become emotional. “Her murder is going to hurt us. She was heavily favored to win the presidency, and now, with her death, we are finished!”

  Senator Faust stared at the man for a moment and then dropped his eyes to his drink. With the index finger of his left hand, he slowly traced the rim of the expensive glassware and wondered how the man across from him had been able to rise as high as he had in the Senate. A small smile crept across his lips. Senator Steinman saw this.

  Raising his eyes toward the fat man, Senator Faust, his smile still in place, said, “This is why you have never been asked to be in the primaries and why you are nothing more than a bottom-row, page-nine article in the Post. You just don’t get it, Bob. You never did, and you never will.”

  Senator Steinman’s face, already flushed from his high blood pressure, turned a deeper shade of red. Biting his lip, he was smart enough politically to know that he should dare say nothing in return to the disrespectful jab.

  Senator Faust lowered his voice and leaned toward Senator Steinman, the corners of his mouth turning from a smile to an angry scowl, and said, this time less formally, “Listen to me, you heart-attack-in-a-suit, and listen closely. When this meeting is over, you and I will both head over to the CNN studios. You will stand at the podium and declare a day of national mourning for the beloved Senator Door. Hell, you might even want to show the world a tear or two. Then, you will announce that I am her replacement. Justine has already prepared your short speech.”

  Senator Steinman was instantly angered. He felt his heart begin to palpitate erratically. His breathing became slightly labored. Controlling himself the best he could, he said, “You presumptuous bastard! The Party has made no decision about her replacement; we haven’t even had the chance to meet and outline our next steps, much less share our grief with the country. She hasn’t even been buried, and you want to discuss why you think it should be you that is her replacement?”

  “Discuss?” responded Senator Faust. “Let’s be clear about this, Bob, there will be no discussion. I am her replacement, and that’s what you will announce. I’ve already received concurrences from Senators Sibbers and Rosenthal.”

  “You’ve spoken with them already? When?”

  Faust didn’t answer.

  Senator Steinman knew he was walking on thin ice—Senator Faust had some very powerful allies in both the public and private sectors. Through his periphery, he saw that a number of the other club members had become aware of their heated tones and were collectively wondering just what the hell was happening.

  Composing himself proved difficult, and he worded his next question carefully and more formally. “Senator Faust, shouldn’t we wait on an announcement until a more proper time?”

  He still doesn’t get it, thought Senator Faust. “Bob, I finished second to her in the primaries—a very close and debatable second—and I am the best known face in the Senate. I also have more friends on our side and across the aisle than any other senator, you included. Hell, I have more people in my pocket than Door did! You and I both know that the only reason she beat me in the primaries was because she is—excuse me, was—a woman.”

  Senator Faust paused, took a breath, and then drew himself nearer to the now very quiet senator across from him. He composed himself in the fashion for which he was famous; he spoke in the manner that got him into and had kept him in office. “Bob, the time couldn’t be any better than it is right now. Door is dead, thousands more died at Notre Dame. The country is in grief; the rest of the world is too. This is like 9/11. The entire world, right now, is feeling the same exact emotion. They burn with grief and are screaming for direction; they are begging for guidance, and all of those screams and emotions are being directed at us.”

  Senator Faust knew he had him; his fist was shaking in front of him as he spoke. His eyes bore the hallmarks of a man possessed. He looked at Senator Robert Steinman; he burned his stare into him as deeply as he could, and said, “The time couldn’t be more perfect, Bob. Everyone, every voter, regardless of party affiliation, sympathizes with us right now. No, Bob, we will not wait; you will make the announcement, and you will do it now.”<
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  Senator Steinman may have had his faults as a man, but he had been in politics long enough to recognize a power vacuum when he saw one. Faust was clearly making his play and was making it well. He was working fast to be sucked into the void left by Senator Door’s death. Steinman had only one last effort left to avoid making the announcement.

  “And what about the cost, Senator Faust? Campaigns cost hundreds of millions, and it’s too late in the election cycle to raise that kind of money. From what I understand, your net worth has taken a bit of a hit from the downturn in the economy, not to mention the reported fifty million or so that you spent on your campaign during the primaries. How do you expect to finance a run for the White House?”

  Faust sat back; he knew the question would be asked. To say that his net worth had taken a hit would be a vast understatement. Senator Faust had made his money in banking. A fast riser and skilled bond trader at Bear Stearns, Senator Faust’s net worth—estimated at one time at over half a billion dollars—was nearly gone. Gone too was Bear Stearns. The firm collapsed literally overnight like a house of cards in a hurricane. When the credit-default-swap market’s underlying Ponzi-like activity was exposed, Bear Stearns, a major player in the market, ceased to exist.

  He was broke.

  Senator Steinman was confident that this would end the conversation. Looking across the table, Senator Faust smiled again.

  “Bob, the hit, as you so eloquently put it, to my net worth was a bit over-publicized. I have enough funds and backers to make a campaign work. This should be the least of your worries.”

  “The committee will need proof; without it, I can’t go to the public and announce you as the candidate that replaces Elizabeth.”

  Senator Faust watched as the mere utterance of Senator Door’s name caused Senator Steinman’s voice to crack.

  “I have already wired twenty-five million into an escrow account for the campaign. Another twenty-five will be added by week’s end. I assume that’s good enough for the committee?”

  Senator Robert L. Steinman could say nothing. He offered only a slight nod in the affirmative. “And who will you name as your running mate; who will be vice president?”

  Faust smiled devilishly as he thought of the phone conversation he had just had during the car ride to the club. “Mr. Francis Q. Door, the late Senator Door’s husband.”

  Senator Robert Steinman sat back. Perfect. Sonofabitch! He had nearly gasped but swallowed it before Senator Faust had seen it. It was perfect: perfectly perfect. With the late Senator Door’s husband as his running mate, Faust would keep her votes and capture more. It didn’t hurt, either, that Francis Q. Door controlled the majority interest of an industrial conglomerate, one that had carried his family name for too many generations to count, or that he was one of the world’s wealthiest men. It was rumored that the man’s political connections found their way to both the Queen of England and China’s premier.

  At least he now knew where Faust was getting his financial backing.

  Senator Faust smiled, knowing full well that the fat man in front of him clearly understood. He pushed back from the table and stood. “Let’s go, Bob. We have an announcement to make.”

  Senator Steinman’s obesity weighed even more heavily on him as he tried to stand. A large drop of sweat leapt from his sideburn and rolled down his plump cheek. Once fully to his feet, he looked at Senator Faust and knew that his submission was required.

  Gathering his political senses, he said to Senator Faust, “After you, sir.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  The collection management officer’s (CMO) day had started in typical fashion; he had been working his way through a technically demanding report on the proliferation of US armament in Afghanistan when the news about Senator Door and Notre Dame’s destruction broke. Since then, he and the rest of his colleagues had remained cemented in front of one of the office’s many wall-mounted LCD televisions and had been watching the CIA’s best source of intelligence: CNN.

  The news anchor was looping much of the same information from one seven-minute segment to the next when the CMO felt his BlackBerry vibrate. Checking the incoming message, he was startled at what he saw.

  “Shit!” he muttered a bit too loudly at the interruption.

  “What is it, Stanford?” asked one of the many CMOs clustered around the television.

  “Nothing,” Stanford lied. “I just have to get back to work. And so should the rest of you shirkers.”

  Stanford shot a sarcastic smile at the few heads that turned his way and then quickly made his way back to his office and shut the door. Once behind his desk, he accessed his computer and opened a program that he had designed—a program that only he used. His skill in infrastructure development for the programming of information systems—better known as hacking—was his one true calling, the only thing that he was really good at doing. The program that Stanford had designed was in a computer language that he had developed while earning his PhD at Harvard. It was a language that only he knew and was the beauty of his program.

  Although the CIA has the most advanced computer systems in the world, even their relentless scans for anything invasive could not find Stanford’s program—you can’t find what you don’t know yet exists. Stanford knew this and had exploited the one small back door that still existed in the CIA’s computer networks.

  “What the hell are you up to, Dr. Sterling?” Stanford said as he studied the computer screen.

  Stanford put on a Plantronic wireless headset and tweaked the programming parameters slightly. Soon, he was listening to the conversation between Michael and York. Across his computer monitor, small green lines flowed from left to right, marking the inflections, intonations, and tone of the speakers’ voices. The data being collected was being used to search for a match among the many files in the CIA’s extensive database: a database wholly built by and shared with the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO).

  Terabytes of voice data were being scanned at a blinding speed. Millions of scattered voiceprints were being filtered against the incoming data for an exact match. Stanford knew the voice of his director but had to be sure. The other voice was an unknown, not that it mattered: the data processing capabilities of the CIA and NRO were unmatched.

  An unquantifiable amount of analysis had occurred in the blink of two eyes. Stanford was staring at two photos that had just popped up on his screen: the faces of SSG Jonathon York, Weapons Sergeant, 7th Special Forces Group, and Dr. Michael Sterling, Deputy Director of Operations, CIA—his boss—stared back at him. A professional and personal biography of each man adorned his respective photo.

  Stanford was shocked that he was listening to SSG York. The Green Beret was supposed to be dead, along with the rest of his team.

  Damn, thought Stanford, this is going to be a problem.

  As the conversation persisted, Stanford listened intently. The further along that it went, the more Stanford’s eyes widened. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.

  Pulling a cell phone from his coat pocket, Stanford dialed a number on the untraceable line. After the third ring, a man answered. “Yes?”

  “We don’t have it—make sure that Thief gets it.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the man. There was no trace of surprise in his voice.

  PART II

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  DUOMO DI TORINO

  TURIN, ITALY

  Charney stared at the white marble façade of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. The low light of the evening did little to suppress the color of the edifice; even in the dark of evening, he was impressed by its symmetry and cleanliness.

  The building glowed.

  Slowly he walked up the wide stairway and into the cathedral’s parvis. Hovering in front of him and overhead were the tympanum and three relief-decorated doorways. The quiet elegance of the Renaissance-inspired exterior spoke little to the value of wha
t lay inside. The cathedral had stood on these grounds for over five centuries and took the place of three paleochristian churches, but it has been only since 1578 that the true importance of the cathedral emerged.

  Pausing for a moment, he slowly scanned his surroundings. It was late, and the grounds were empty. The air had an unnerving stillness that set the stage for what was to come. Over his left shoulder, Charney glanced at the cathedral’s bell tower, known as Saint Andrew’s. It stood alone and separate from the building. It was made of a different stone and during a different time. Its imposing height reigned over the cathedral and reminded him of Notre Dame. It wasn’t Notre Dame, but it was impressive nonetheless: only this one wouldn’t fall. This cathedral and its bell tower may last another five centuries.

  Its undoing wasn’t his task, but what this cathedral held was.

  Charney pushed on the main door; he wasn’t surprised that it was open. Entering a church at any time was a right for Italians.

  Inside, the air was stagnant and cold, but he was met with extended frescoes and an impressive, spacious nave. Susa—stony columns—stood throughout and, even from his vantage point, he could see that the dominant features of its interior were made in the distinct shape of the Latin cross.

  He secreted down the main aisle; the centuries-old artwork hovered all around him. He ignored its ubiquitous, overbearing nature. His purpose was his only focus.

  A muffled noise caught his attention. Facing it, Charney saw a flickering light in one of the cathedral’s thirteen chapels. He walked toward it, careful not to make a sound. As he approached, the shadow of a man danced along the wall. Peering in, Charney saw the cathedral’s priest kneeling in prayer.

  He was an old, diminutive man.

  Charney smiled. He said nothing, but only stared at the quasi-prostrate man. It amused Charney that this man was on his knees, hunched over and close to the ground, begging his god for something. He didn’t know for what the old man was praying, but he knew what it soon would be.