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

by Joseph Nagle

  A small piece of twisted metal had cleanly pierced the man’s right thigh. His chest expanded and contracted heavily.

  Karma, thought Michael as he stared at the impaled leg and struggled to undo his own seat belt.

  In the front seat, the driver was slumped over the center console. His life had ended.

  Michael shot a glance at the chase car behind them. Already, its dazed occupants were climbing out of the vehicle. Ahead of the accident, the lead car had slammed on its brakes and was turning around.

  The seatbelt was tight across his chest, which made it quite hard to maneuver his cuffed hands to the seatbelt’s release. Michael grimaced as he twisted his body. He desperately fumbled for the release, but his fingertips weren’t close enough to grasp it.

  He pushed against the force of the handcuffs as much as he could tolerate. The metal of each cuff dug deeply into his wrists. He let out a long groan as they bit harder into his flesh. His fingers grabbed onto the seatbelt’s release, and he clumsily undid the restraint.

  Freed from the buckle, Michael flipped onto his back and grunted heavily as he slid his legs through his cuffed arms. Still on his back, with his cuffed wrists now in front of him, he kicked open the door and slid awkwardly out of the vehicle.

  Momentarily sizing up the situation, Michael looked left and then right. Reaching back into the vehicle, he took the sidearm from the unconscious guard. Michael reached for the piece of metal impaled in the man’s leg and yanked it free. The pain forced the guard to shoot up against his seatbelt. He regained consciousness, let out a loud scream, and then looked at Michael.

  Michael put the gun to the man’s temple. “Where is she?” screamed Michael.

  “I was never told, I don’t—I don’t know. That’s how it is. We never know what the other teams are doing,” he replied weakly.

  “The keys for the cuffs?!”

  “In the chase vehicle,” panted the guard.

  Sirens were closing in from the distance, and some of the men from the chase vehicle spilled out from its upturned sides.

  Michael looked back at the guard, and, with one swift movement, he slammed the piece of metal into the man’s chest.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said to the newly dead guard, and then he sprinted toward the wood line.

  The thick-trunked trees were covered by even thicker brush and roped vines. Michael couldn’t run in a straight line. With his arms outstretched to protect his face from low-hanging branches, Michael ignored the sting of the increasing number of new cuts.

  Pimmit Bend Park was close. He would find what he needed there.

  The men in the lead vehicle didn’t see Michael run into the woods, nor did the men stumbling from the flipped-over chase vehicle. The small vehicle that they had crashed into was on fire; the thick, black smoke obscured Michael’s escape. Michael used this to his advantage. It bought him a few extra minutes, and he used them wisely.

  Once safely into the woods, Michael fell to his knees. He undid his belt buckle and pulled down his pants just enough to expose his hip. With a muffled groan, Michael dug the tip of his index finger into the small hole created by the heavy sewing needle he had shoved into his hip earlier.

  A small amount of blood dripped from the wound as Michael struggled to grasp the needle’s eye. Finally getting a grip on the needle, he worked it from where it resided. The thick shaft of the needle’s body was slippery; Michael squeezed it hard and pulled it slowly from his flesh.

  Once it was out of his hip, Michael shoved it into the keyhole of the handcuffs and manipulated the tumblers to unlock them. It took only a few moments to pick the locks.

  Throwing the cuffs to the forest floor, Michael sat motionless for a moment and thought, Why would three men willingly choose to die to make it look like I escaped?

  There was no answer to his question.

  He stood and sprinted toward the park he knew was a few kilometers north of his position. The small park was as standard as any other in Fairfax County. A few cars straddled the roadside of its southern border. It was a favorite spot for runners. Once there, he ran to the nearest car—a 2007 Honda minivan, silver in color—and didn’t hesitate. He smashed in its window with his elbow, opened the door, and climbed in to the front seat. Hot-wiring the car was as easy as picking the locks of the handcuffs.

  Soon, he was speeding down the road and distancing himself from his captors.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the medallion that the CIA officer had put there. It was small and emblazoned with a four-armed cross. Each arm was inset with a marble-sized purple amethyst. Another amethyst was set in its center. The stones were set into gold. Carved into the precious metal were simple designs—designs that meant nothing.

  Flipping it over, the back of the medallion was flat and nondescript. He saw the engraving that the guard had read to him: From Four to Fifteen: Ten are Lost Forever. This part didn’t make sense, but etched crudely underneath the phrase was another: They Amount to the Same.

  Reading the engraving, Michael immediately knew why he was in the middle of this mess. He let out a long, heavy breath and said out loud, “I should have been a lawyer. Am I the only guy in the fucking CIA who knows history?”

  Michael knew what the second engraving meant: he had come across and studied its significance when earning his PhD in religious history.

  Sighing, he turned the car toward Dulles Airport Road. He had a plane to catch. But first there was someone he needed to see. Keeping one hand on the wheel, Michael flipped open the center console. He rummaged through its contents, pulling out a small map, a pen, and a package of tissues. He threw them all into the back seat. They weren’t what he wanted.

  “Come on, there’s got to be one here!” he shouted out loud.

  He reached over to the glove box, doing his best to keep the minivan on the road. The door of the compartment fell downward, and Michael immediately saw what he needed.

  He silently enjoyed the victory, even if it was a small one.

  He yanked the cell phone out of the glove box, thanked the predictability of people, and typed in a simple text message.

  Within moments, a message was returned. The response was short and to the point: 15 minutes. You know where.

  Michael pressed down on the accelerator.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  DO YOU SEE ME?

  ROUTE 267

  Route 267 wasn’t empty, but the traffic flowed unimpeded. Michael was anxious, but careful to not drive too fast. He settled the minivan in behind an eighteen-wheeler and was content to match the trucker’s speed.

  Nearly ten minutes had passed, as well as a couple of toll stations. Fortunately, he had stolen a minivan replete with an electronic toll pass. Through each station, a digital record marked the time and date. It wouldn’t take the Company long to track him.

  He figured he had anywhere from five minutes to an hour’s head start: it depended on just how much the owner of the stolen van loved to run.

  Once it was reported stolen, the report would be uploaded into the Fairfax County police database. The CIA would see the report faster than any detective assigned to the case. They would work feverishly to find and to reverse-calculate the movement of any stolen vehicle. So long as it was equipped with any form of electronic tracking—including cell-phone usage, navigation systems, On-Star systems, and toll passes—the vehicle could be tracked and found. Michael had used two of the four.

  It was a necessary risk.

  Soon, a CIA analyst would find that a 2007 Silver Honda minivan had been stolen from Pimmit Bend Park, driven down Route 267, and, most telling, its driver had sent and received a text message.

  The analyst would tap into the Department of Transportation’s traffic monitoring systems and easily find the digital video of the minivan passing through the tollbooths; the analyst would enhance the video footage until he or she could more clearly see the driver’s face.

  Through each toll, Michael ha
d ensured that he lowered his head so that the video wouldn’t show his face. Before merging with the traffic on Route 267, Michael had flipped down the sun visors to help obstruct the camera’s view.

  It didn’t matter.

  The analyst at Langley would use a face recognition program, which would survey the unique angles of Michael’s face. It would take a few minutes longer than a simple visual confirmation, but nonetheless, the program would spit out a positive match of his face.

  Confirmation wouldn’t be necessary, but the analyst would be efficient. They all were. They would find Michael. The analyst would run a trace of all cell phone activity and cross-reference it with all stolen car reports from the moment Michael had escaped. There would be hundreds, perhaps thousands, of cell phone calls and text messages. But only two of them would be at the precise spot where Michael had stolen the van. The analyst would read them and know that he was on his way to meet someone, and it wouldn’t be difficult for the analyst to find out where.

  Michael was leaving a trail as wide as a canyon.

  He didn’t have a choice.

  Michael lowered his face and passed through the last toll before getting off of the road. Taking exit number 12, Michael drove with spirit down Reston Parkway. He took a right onto US Geological Survey Drive. To his left, he saw a street—Sanibel Drive—and he swerved onto it. The homes on Sanibel were less than modest, a typical side effect to living within shouting distance of an airport. He panned left and right and saw what he needed: an empty driveway.

  Turning quickly into the driveway, Michael slammed on the brakes and roughly shifted the minivan into park. He stared at the closed curtains of the home. They were discolored and hung askew. Half-expecting them to be pulled back at any moment, along with a set of eyes peering through, he let out a breath when they remained still. He jumped out of the minivan, landing heavily onto the balls of his feet. A sharp pain ran up and then back down the front of his quadriceps. He grunted at it and at his lack of grace. Swearing at no one in particular, he reached down and shoved his thumb into the femoris branch of his femoral nerve. It was an old trick to mute leg pain: the deeper he pushed, the less sharp the pain was in his leg. Standing upright, he let out a shallow breath and quickly scanned the neighborhood for any signs of danger. Seeing none, he took out the stolen cell phone and dialed the number to the Fairfax County automated weather line. A sultry female voice echoed the day’s temperature, including the high and low, relative humidity, and chance for precipitation. He tossed the phone onto the driver’s seat; the digital loop repeated.

  Michael ran away from the minivan and hoped that its owner was still out on her run. He needed a few more minutes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  EVERYONE GETS WHAT

  THEY WANT

  PIAZZA SAN CARLO

  TORINO, ITALY

  Charney ran his fingers over the coarse stone pedestal of the statue’s base. It was rougher than he had imagined, but he enjoyed the sensation the porous rock created along his fingertips. He gazed upward at the statue of the large bronze horse and rider that was mounted atop the stone: a victorious Duke Edmondo Filiberto with his sword held high and crying out to the victory of the battle of Saint Quentin.

  But he wasn’t there to admire the architecture and vision of Di Castellamonte, the piazza’s creator. He was there to deliver the shroud.

  The piazza was one hundred and sixty-eight meters long and seventy-six wide, affording him the ability to see his flanks, to be protected from all sides. There would be no surprises by the American; he would see him well in advance of his arrival.

  And just as he had anticipated, there he was.

  The American was walking toward him but was still more than one hundred meters from his position. He was easily recognizable.

  Too obvious, Charney thought. Or, perhaps he wasn’t concerned.

  Charney put his hand in his pocket and squeezed the ancient grenade. It was his last one. He doubted that he would need it, but caution was critical to survival. He put his thumb through the circular eyelet of the grenade’s safety pin.

  In his free hand, he held a cigarette. He took one last drag and then dropped it nonchalantly to his feet. The man closed the distance just as Charney finished rubbing out with the ball of his foot the lit end of the cigarette on the centuries-old travertine.

  Over Charney’s shoulder was draped the bag that held the Shroud of Turin.

  In the distance, the sounds of sirens could be heard. The crowds on the piazza were thinner by night, and most were huddled at the small number of coffee shops and bars that bordered the piazza.

  The stout American now stood directly in front of Charney. He gruffly commanded, “Let’s walk.”

  The wail of another siren caught their attention as the unseen Fiat screamed by; Charney’s contact dryly stated, “I suppose that’s your doing.” He didn’t wait for a response, and Charney didn’t offer one; instead, he eyed the dark bag hanging over Charney’s shoulder. “Is that it?”

  Charney ignored both the comment and the question; he replied only by saying, “I would like some espresso, shall we?”

  Charney pointed toward an empty table in the corner of one of the outdoor cafés. The man nodded and both men walked toward it. Once seated, the American repeated his question. “Is that it?”

  A young barista prevented Charney from answering; both men asked for espressos. She smiled at the American indifferently, but seemed to offer Charney a bit more attention.

  Charney noticed her eyes; they were deep and catching. He thought he saw her cheeks flush a bit as she turned to fill their order. Charney stared a bit too long as she walked away.

  This isn’t the time, he thought.

  Looking at the man sitting across from him, Charney finally answered his question. “Yes, this is it.” And then he pushed it across the table.

  Without hesitation, the man reached into a small, flat bag that he had draped across his own body. He pulled out a small laptop and affixed a cord to one of its USB ports. In a few short moments, the end of the cord lit up slightly. It was an infrared ocular device, reading the age of the shroud’s fibers.

  He punched a few commands into the laptop and then waited for the analysis to complete. Charney heard a small tone and saw a slight smile form on the man’s pursed lips.

  “It would seem that it dates to the time expected.”

  “Which is?”

  “Don’t know; I was told that as long as this little light turns green, I am to not kill you.”

  The man had been too preoccupied to notice that under the table Charney had removed the grenade from his pocket and had it firmly grasped in his hand. In Charney’s other hand was the safety. He gently placed it on the table.

  Gerald was not confused and remained silent; he easily recognized the pin belonged to a grenade.

  Charney told him anyway. “It is the safety to the grenade I am holding in my hand. How the rest of this conversation transpires will be up to you.”

  The American shifted slightly in his seat, but showed no outward fear. He thought of his options and said, “I suppose a bit of quid pro quo is only fair; the last time we met, I put my gun in your face. But there is nothing to worry about; our trust in you has grown. Yours in us should have, too.”

  “And what of my money?” asked Charney. “Has it been transferred?”

  The man calculated the situation, and his smile grew. “For what it is worth, I really admire your work. I am Gerald, by the way. I can see that we have had some of the same training. I was with the 5th Special Forces Group—you?”

  “French Foreign Legion.”

  “Marche ou créve,” responded Gerald. It was the Legion’s motto: March or die.

  Charney was surprised and replied in kind with the motto of the Special Forces: “De Opresso Liber.”

  Gerald nodded and then reached into the inside of his suit coat.

  Charney’s posture became more erect; his hand squeezed the grenade harde
r. Gerald held up his other hand and said, “Relax, just take it easy. I am reaching for my phone. You asked about your money; you would like to see that it has been transferred, right?”

  Charney offered a slight nod for the man to continue.

  The compact American pulled out a small, keyless cell phone and turned it on. It appeared quite diminutive as he cradled it in his thick hands. He tapped the screen a few times and then turned the device so that Charney could see it. It showed a wire transfer had been made to his bank.

  Another five million.

  “When we have concluded, I will give you another code word to finalize the transfer. It will be activated within the hour; once I have final confirmation that this is the Shroud of Turin. Now, if you would please. The girl is returning with our coffee. I don’t think it would be wise if she were to see you holding a grenade under the table.”

  Charney smoothly replaced the safety into the grenade and then nonchalantly tossed it to the American, whose anxious hands grabbed it from the air. Charney could hear the man’s rate of breathing rise a bit.

  A few short moments passed, and the man’s look of fear turned into one of question. “It’s lighter than I thought.”

  “It’s empty…Gerald. You Americans seem to appreciate humor in dark situations,” replied Charney.

  With this quip, Gerald let out a sigh of relief and a short laugh. He responded, “I like you, monsieur, I really do. May I?” he gestured toward his pocket with the empty grenade.

  “Of course,” replied Charney. “A keepsake. Another thing you Americans enjoy.”

  At that moment the barista placed two espressos in front of the men. She smiled at Charney, but before walking away, she teasingly bit her lip.

  He felt a slight flash of arousal.

  Business first.

  “She likes you,” remarked Gerald.

  Picking up the small porcelain cup, Charney downed its contents, but his eyes remained firmly latched upon the departing barista. Ignoring Gerald’s observation, he stood to leave.