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

by Joseph Nagle

  Lowering his good shoulder, Charney put all of his weight into Michael’s ribs, sending him roughly backward and once again to the floor.

  Charney lunged for the weapon, but York was already there. Charney jumped to his feet and disappeared through the crypt’s entry the moment a bullet from his own gun ricocheted across the marble.

  The shot hit where his head had been only a moment before.

  York cursed. “Son of a bitch! Who the hell is that guy?!”

  York ran to Michael, who was gingerly rising to his feet. “Kid, let me see that map book.”

  Reaching into his pocket, York pulled out the map book and handed it to Michael. Michael thumbed through it, but none of it made any sense. There were pages of maps of the Middle East. The maps were like any other: locations of villages, towns, and cities; elevation markings, water sources, grid-squares, but nothing more.

  York repeated his question. “Doc, who is that guy; why did he want the maps?

  “That is precisely what we are going to find out. He’s not the only one good at stealing things.”

  Michael was holding a small leather billfold in his hand; he was smiling, albeit painfully. While the two men were grappling, Michael had been able to reach into Charney’s pocket and pilfer his wallet.

  Michael opened it and pulled out an identification card. He studied it for a moment and then shrugged. Why can’t, just for once, the next stop be in the same damn town—hell, the same damn country even?

  Looking at York, he asked, “How’d you get from Mumbai to Portugal?”

  “I was at the airport and overheard a Brit that had just arrived. He was on a month-long business trip. He kinda looked like me, although I am much better looking, so I followed him into an airport bar and stole his passport. I used it to fly here.”

  “You still have it?”

  York patted his pocket and replied, “Yep. Still got it.”

  Michael smiled. “It’ll be better than the one I gave you. Looks like we’re going to Paris, kid.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  BOUND & ALONE

  LOCATION UNKNOWN

  Sonia was afraid, very afraid.

  She had been robbed of her senses. Day could have been night; she had no concept of time.

  Her hands were bound tightly behind her back, and the blindfold was still on; the man that had abducted and bound her had left hours ago—it could have been longer. He still had not come back.

  Time had no meaning. She guessed twelve hours had passed, but it could have been much longer. There was nothing to give away anything temporal.

  She vacillated from bouts of uncontrolled energy, as she blindly searched her prison, to fragments of sleep. The quiet that surrounded her played with her senses. She had no barometer for time and location.

  Her fits of fear and feelings ranged from primal to angry. On her feet, she scrambled around the room once more—an act that she repeated often—feeling the walls with her bound hands, feeling for anything that would tell her where she was. It had been this way countless times, too many to remember. The walls were made of large blocks of stone, of this much she could be sure.

  They were cold and wet.

  They were bulbous.

  The air had a chill in it and smelled dank; she knew that she was underground, in a basement perhaps. Each time that she repeated this action, she hoped for something more revealing, but it never came.

  When the man had abducted her, she was rendered unconscious and awoke facing a camera, forced to give her husband a message. Then her abductor covered her mouth once more with chloroform—time passed, and she didn’t know how much.

  When she woke, all she heard were the sounds of a truck, and she felt as if her head was in a fog. She was in the back of the truck, forced to lie on her stomach. The road was rough, as if made from uneven brick, bouncing her body relentlessly on the floor. It was then that she had first felt the intense throbbing in her right leg, the center of which burned excruciatingly.

  In her prison, she struggled to feel and to hear any clues to where she was. But there was no sound other than what she made as she shuffled around the room. She felt disconnected from her space, from time.

  It was small and square. She was sure it had no windows.

  Her moments in the cell had started with screams—screams which no one answered. It didn’t take long for her voice to go hoarse and then for it disappear entirely.

  She no longer cared if the man came back. She put her face onto the wall; she used the roughness of the stone to catch the fabric of the blindfold. Soon it was off. She waited for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust. The darkness of the room was nearly absolute, and she could make out little. The only source of light was from the small space between the room’s wooden door and the floor.

  Dropping to the floor, on her back, she struggled to slide her bound hands under her backside. It took a bit of effort, and she knew that the inevitable would occur. When the dull pop came, she screamed. But with her voice long since robbed, her scream was more physical than audible. The dislocation of her shoulder was a pain unlike any that she had ever felt.

  Holding her breath and fighting through her tears, Sonia soon had her hands at her front.

  Unable to raise her arms, she knew the shoulder had to be forced back into its socket first. Without so much as a palpable hesitation and with her breath still held, she rammed the shoulder into the wall. The force was Newtonian, propelling her backward and onto the floor. It hurt as much going in as it did coming out. On the floor, she writhed. This time, a scream did escape.

  Nearly hyperventilating, Sonia struggled to gulp large amounts of air. Tears streamed down the sides of her cheeks. Soon, however, her breathing was back in her control. Sitting up, she gingerly raised her arms to survey the rope. It was thick, and she put it between her teeth. It was easier to undo the knot than it had been to get her hands to her front.

  She stretched her sore shoulder and massaged her wrists, making her way to the door. The handle turned, but the door stayed secured to its frame.

  It was bolted from the other side.

  She dropped to her stomach and put one eye to the crack at the bottom.

  All she saw were lengths of white, nothing more.

  As she sat back against the wall, the pain in her right leg suddenly appeared. Writhing slightly, she let out a short scream and gripped her thigh with both hands. Large beads of sweat quickly trickled across her forehead. A wave of nausea exploded from her midsection as she heaved, but the convulsions were dry. There was nothing in her stomach.

  The pain would come and go; each time was worse than the last.

  She controlled her breathing and focused on staying calm. Slowly it abated.

  Sonia buried her face deep into her hands and cried. Her fear had returned.

  Please, Michael, please come to me.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  BECOMING THE HUNTER

  TO PARIS: NINE HOURS

  LEFT

  The flight to Paris had passed mostly without incident. Except, that is, for York’s loud snoring.

  The sonorous snoring was baritone and resonated in the plane’s interior. York was doing his best to mimic the deep rumble of the long-horned, copper Tibetan dungchen; Michael was amazed that each deep inhalation was followed by the long elephant-like bellow of the monks’ traditional horn. The first time may have been amazing and a bit amusing perhaps, but the second a bit less; by the third and fourth snores, York was receiving angry glares from the other passengers.

  It almost took Michael’s mind off how much he hated to fly.

  Michael elbowed the young man sharply, which seemed to help. But it was like this for the entire flight. The cycle was repetitious: York would snore, Michael would elbow him; it would stop for a few minutes. Michael sipped his Grey Goose as he continued to nudge him sharply—by the time each glass was finished, a third or fourth elbow would have been thrown.

  As the plane prepared to land, the ove
rhead chimes, followed by the flight attendant’s voice, woke York. He stretched his long arms and quite contently said, “Damn, that felt good! I slept like a baby.”

  He looked around and noticed that a number of the passengers were glaring at him oddly. Leaning in toward Michael, York asked, “Did you notice that we’re gettin’ a bit of the evil eye? Do you think we smell or something?”

  “Yeah, kid—or something.”

  York stretched a bit more and couldn’t help but notice that Michael had a few empty travel-size bottles of vodka. In his hand was a small glass with ice and one last swallow.

  Michael swirled the glass slightly; the ice slapped the inside of the glass, and then he lifted it to his lips and swallowed.

  York saw no mixer. He had been drinking it straight.

  After the plane landed, the CIA officer and Green Beret located a cabstand. Michael leaned heavily against a signpost, working hard to not show the pain that radiated through him. The vodka had helped, albeit only slightly. He looked at his watch: just over nine hours.

  He looked like a broken boxer.

  As Michael used the pole for support, he breathed slowly; he closed his eyes for a moment. Only nine hours stood between him and death. In nine hours, he would know if his life was over, if he would ever see Sonia again. In nine hours, his life would change.

  He just didn’t know in what way.

  They were outside of the terminal at France’s Charles de Gaulle (CDG) airport. The air was warm and a bit humid. Not as warm as Granada, but without the breeze from the Mediterranean, it felt palpably hotter. York pulled at his collar slightly; a thin film of sweat was already there.

  Michael looked through Charney’s wallet; he studied an address. He raised his hand, and a cab pulled next to the curb within moments. He pointed at York to jump into the cab. Inside, the pain in his leg had spread to his voice when he told the cab driver, “Place de l’Opera: le Sentier, s’il vous plait.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  York stared at Michael: “You speak French, too?”

  “Enough,” grimaced Michael.

  “What are we going to do?” York asked as he motioned toward Michael’s leg.

  “We are going to stay focused on Paris, on our mission, kid. Nothing more.”

  York frowned but knew by now that Michael was a serious man and meant what he said. It wouldn’t help to push the discussion.

  Time and place. He was learning.

  The drive was uneventful. Neither man spoke.

  Michael laid his head back and was met with a slight swirl of vertigo. He couldn’t be sure if it was from the vodka, the pain, or a combination of them both. His eyes had long ago gone shallow. His skin was turning gaunt. Disheveled wasn’t the right word for his appearance. Inside, his body ached, and his mind spun. There would be no rest for him. He opened his eyes and stared at the countryside.

  Soon the cab was in Paris and making its way through the 2nd arrondissement. The neighborhood appeared postcard-perfect. The roads had an interesting life as they flowed like water through the centuries-old city. To their left and right, old Parisian boutiques and shops straddled them. Over Rue St. Denis they drove; a curious sight materialized as the architecture turned into women. They were everywhere: seductive and inviting. They bent over and peered with elongated smiles into the cab as the two Americans drove by. This was York’s first visit to a true red-light district. His eyes were glued to the side of the road as his head bounced left and right at each new woman in his view.

  Michael tapped the driver on the shoulder and motioned for him to pull over at the next corner. He paid the man and then climbed out of the cab.

  “Come on, kid. And wipe that drool from your mouth.”

  York smiled and pantomimed a wipe.

  They were between the Montmartre and Rue St. Denis, in a maze of passages. The women disappeared, keeping their peddling to the more traveled streets. The passageways were narrow and dark in some places, while others sprayed an electric spirit without warning. Michael moved quickly, but his gait was uneven. York stayed close, closer than normal. He was worried about Michael.

  Michael knew where he was going. He knew Paris well, and in an instant, he came to an abrupt halt.

  “Shit,” he spat out.

  “What is it?” asked York.

  Michael pointed: “A dead end, kid. A damn dead end.”

  They were standing at the address on Charney’s identification, but it was clearly not his home. They were standing directly in front of the Bibliothèque Nationale; it was one of Paris’s treasures, and tourists surrounded it.

  “Now what—what the hell are we supposed to do?”

  Michael scanned the area carefully; he wasn’t sure how to respond. He didn’t know what he was looking for but trusted he would know when he saw it; his movements were instinctive and from a man who had spent his life in special operations. Near them, an old, bespectacled man sat reading Le Monde, a French newspaper. Michael almost looked away, but something caught his attention. He looked back and locked on to its headline.

  Close to the seated man was a large, wheeled magazine kiosk. Michael walked to it and picked up a copy of the newspaper—the same that the man was reading. He studied the front page with growing interest.

  The kiosk owner was annoyed at the American’s presumption and made it clear. “Quatre euros, monsieur!”

  But Michael had seen enough; he tore the front page from the paper and put the rest back, to the ire of the man behind the counter. He smiled at the kiosk owner, tossed him a five-euro note although the man had only demanded four, and replied, “Merci.”

  York was sure the Frenchman had responded with some curt, unfriendly words. Michael was moving fast and with a new purpose. “Hey, Doc! Where are we going?”

  Michael shoved the torn front page into York’s hands, and then whistled for another cab. He didn’t have to wait long. It was Paris—cabs were as omnipresent as the flies that attached themselves to the strays in the streets.

  The two men climbed in, and the driver asked for their destination.

  Michael answered the driver’s question along with York’s: “Le hôtel Westminster, si’l vous plait.”

  York smoothed out the newspaper and, although he couldn’t speak or read French, translated easily the cognates in the headline:

  American Senator in Paris

  “You don’t think it’s a coincidence, do you, Doc?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “Who is this guy?”

  “Our next president.”

  York whistled quietly and said, “We’re in deep, aren’t we?”

  Michael didn’t answer. His silence said it all.

  At the intersection where Rue Daunou crossed with Rue 4 du Septembre stood the magnificent building that housed the World Exchange. Michael and York were standing on its corner; from their vantage point, they could see the front entrance of the Westminster hotel.

  “Doc,” asked York, “what does the article say?”

  Michael never took his eyes from the building. “It said that Senator Matthew Faust would be delivering an address to the people of France and would be doing it from the Westminster. From here.”

  “And you think the senator is involved somehow?”

  “There’s no way to be certain, but it’s all we have. Think about it, kid: Senator Door was killed when Notre Dame fell, and this guy took her place.”

  “Doc, I don’t mean to sound like an ass, but so what? Someone had to take her place. If it wasn’t this guy, it would have been someone else.”

  The kid had a point. But yet, the newly anointed presidential candidate was here, at the scene of the crime, and the vellum was too.

  Michael took his eyes from the door of the hotel and leaned in to York. “Kid, the Order has used the same tired method from one century to the next to get their pawns into positions of power. If they can’t buy their way into office, they kill their way. Paris is where Senator
Door was killed, where the Crown of Thorns was stolen. This is where that thief went and where he brought the vellum. Paris is where the exchange will be made. Yeah, kid, I could be wrong; this could all be one great, big, cosmic coincidence, but I’d bet my other leg that it’s not.”

  Just then, York grabbed Michael roughly by the elbow. “Hey, Doc! Look!”

  Michael turned his attention back to the Westminster. He wasn’t sure what York had seen. The street front was busy, but nothing stood apart.

  “What, kid? What am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “Don’t you see her? Look!” York hurriedly opened up the front page torn from Le Monde and held it in front of Michael. “Look in the photo, behind the senator!”

  Michael hadn’t noticed her before, but behind a placating and smiling Senator Faust was a woman. She was both voluptuous and serious. Her hair was styled tightly back and spoke of her demeanor. She appeared to be all business. But that wasn’t the thing about her that stood out the most. No. It was her hair: red as fire and hard to miss.

  Michael looked up quickly at the crowd of people on the street. It took only a moment. And then he saw her; it was her inviting shape that caught his attention first. Her renaissance femininity swayed enticingly from side to side; she stood out in a city of unnecessarily thin women. She was moving fast from the front of the hotel and down the street. Atop her head was a large, stylish hat, expected for this part of Paris. Her hand was pulling downward slightly on the hat’s edge as if to ward off the sun.

  Michael focused on her as she walked down the street.

  Patiently and silently he waited; York too.

  It was just for a moment, but that moment was all that Michael needed. As she walked, she turned her head back, over her right shoulder, and nervously scanned behind her. Most of her pale face was covered, but not all of it. A deep shade of inviting crimson poked out from over her ear. She reached up and tucked the errant red hair over her ear and deeper into the hat. The woman that had just hurriedly left the Westminster was the same as in the newspaper photo.