by Joseph Nagle
The third and final box was entirely too large for its two lone contents: lengths of electrical cord and a handheld water jet cutter. The cutter was the best of its class, the newest on the market and quite expensive.
He held the cutter in both hands, surprised at its weight—or lack thereof—and thumbed the sintered boride nozzle. The best that commercial water cutters could provide was ninety thousand pounds per square inch; this one was capable of one hundred and fifty thousand.
Cradling the cutter in his arms as if it were an infant, he returned to Samothrace. Before her, he stood. It was the only time that he would allow himself a moment where he did nothing. She was magnificent, tantalizing even. He imagined Annette was there with him, standing at his side, her hand in his. He could feel her heartbeat.
He could hear her breathe.
He could almost hear her speak.
The thought of his dead love offered no distraction, only a reminder. She was his dateless bargain.
With his steadfast gaze, he traced Samothrace’s exotic, Parian curves from the tip of her torso and downward to her feet. Samothrace stood atop the carved bow of a ship, and each of the billows of her cascading clothing was sheer and expertly chiseled to look wet from the spray of salt water. They erotically clung to the voluptuous curves of her breasts and hips, hugging every part of her strong, feminine frame.
Inside him, the faded memory of his fingertips touching Annette’s own curves grew warmer the longer he stared.
Samothrace was Annette.
Annette was Samothrace.
Samothrace was his.
He reached with his forefinger and easily depressed the switch that powered on the cutter.
It vibrated to life with a low, musical hum.
His movements were fast and precise. The kerf of each cut was no wider than a human hair; there would be no interference by the friction of the water with the stone. The heat-affected zone was instantly cooled by each fresh particle of water.
Piece by piece, he delicately dismembered her, until she no longer stood atop the carved pedestal.
The marble bow of the ship was now bare of Samothrace. Charney’s face was covered with fine Parian dust split by long streaks of caked sweat. His chest was heaving, as his efforts were no small feat.
He wiped his forearm across his brow; only then did he notice the heavy layer of dust across his skin.
Behind Charney, water from the cutter flowed like a small waterfall over each of the Daru stairs as gravity pulled it downward. Most of it would make its way naturally, and by design, to the handful of drains that pockmarked the grand facility. The rest would evaporate quickly in the climate-controlled air of the Louvre.
The empty crates were placed on the tracks and soon were filled with the separated parts of the masterpiece. Time moved fast, but Charney moved faster. Along the tracks he pushed the filled crates to the Louvre’s south-end loading docks.
Cleaning was simple. The hose was rolled and tucked into a corner of the storage room; the cutter was placed on a shelf. Both looked as if they belonged. Neither could be traced to him. The tracks were a different matter; they would appear out of place, so into one of the wooden crates they were returned.
His hands hurt and his back ached, but there was no time to lament. With one exhalation, he secured the door to the loading dock with the same code he had used to open it—a code that had been provided in the same manner as the supplies.
Soon, the boxes would be picked up by DHL.
The Louvre’s shipping activities—items loaned out to other museums and new acquisitions—were always conducted in the hours between dusk and dawn. The insurance company had demanded this. One of their cube-bound financial analysts had calculated that more money was lost on damaged artwork and artifacts from payouts that came by way of traffic accidents than from theft.
The scheduled pickup would be arriving momentarily.
But the driver was on his payroll for the time being; he would deliver the lacerated pieces of Samothrace to his home in the Aulnay sous Bois.
No connection could be left to chance.
The truck would be burned.
The driver killed.
Charney ran back to the Denon Wing.
In the storage room was a mop, and he put it to good but fast use. With any errant puddles mopped, he wiped clean the room’s floor and then set the mop near the door, closing and locking it.
He returned to the still-dangling fast rope. Ascending back up to the cupola was as easy as descending to the staircase. The Trango fast rope descender doubled as an ascender: the small but sturdy engine-driven gears worked in reverse, pulling him back to the rooftop.
Once there, all that was left to do was to pull the heavy glass back into place. He levered the pane of glass upward and through the D-ring. Hand over hand, he agonizingly pulled the rope one small length at a time. Once it was fully raised, he locked the small fast rope into the D-ring and then manually turned the pane of glass until its cut edges aligned appropriately with the frame. One more pull of the rope, and the pane of glass was back where it once had been.
He secured the fast rope and left the suction cup in place. It wouldn’t hold the pane of glass for eternity, but it would hold long enough—long enough for his task to be completed.
Retrieving his parachute, he put it and its harness on once more. The winds had picked up to his satisfaction. Toeing the edge of the roof, the BASE jump would be his final effort in what the French press would soon label an “Impossible Task.”
A gust of wind slapped hard against his body; at that moment he threw the chute into it. It was a calculated move that worked perfectly.
The chute filled with air and snapped open. It was then that he jumped. The free fall was short and nearly nonexistent; his landing to the pavilion below was graceful.
The operation had been near flawless except for the unwitting clochard perched half-drunk nearby. The old, broken man rubbed his eyes as he watched a man descend slowly from the sky. He was too drunk to see the outline of the near-transparent parachute.
The image appeared to him god-like, as if an angel had flown down from the heavens before him.
The clochard stood uneasily, but the iron rod of Catholicism and its dogma forced upon him fired up his instincts; he fell painfully to his knees, suddenly ashamed that he wasn’t already in a position of prayer.
The outline of the slow-falling angel stood upon the earth and then walked toward him; the Parian dust caked along Charney’s skin added to the effect, casting an oppressive white glow upon the drunken clochard.
The street urchin gasped as his eyes twitched from both excitement and fear. The mostly finished bottle of cheap red wine in his right hand fell loudly to the ground as he released his grip.
He was certain that God had come for him.
He couldn’t have been more mistaken.
The CRL 320 glasscutter could easily slice much more than glass. Flesh was by no means an obstacle.
A flash of silver streaked across the clochard’s face. There was no pain as the cutter dug into and across the old man’s neck. Perhaps his alcoholism had one last, positive effect, as nearly all of the pain was deadened.
Or, perhaps it was because death came so quick.
Without a word, Charney disappeared into the black milk of the night.
The clochard fell to his side, dead.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
THE WATCHMEN RETURN
67 RUE DU CHABROL
The knock at the door made York tense. His specially trained and fieldtested instincts put him on the defensive. He quickly drew the pistol that Michael had given to him and pulled back the slide, putting a fresh 9mm round into the chamber, and took an aiming posture at the source of the knocking.
His aim was steady.
Danielle walked toward the door, but York halted her. “Wait,” he ordered through a rough whisper, sidestepping slightly to obtain a better firing position.
She froze,
sensing his seriousness.
York nodded for her to move more carefully toward the door and held up one hand as if to say be careful; open it slowly.
York squeezed his left eye tightly and aligned the forward and rear sights of the pistol; he took careful aim and exhaled slowly.
At that moment, the sound of a telephone filled the room, and the television flashed brightly the symbol of the CIA on its screen. York was startled by the noise, but his aim never wavered.
The knock on the door became more pronounced, turning into pounding, and, this time, came with shouts from Michael. “Danielle, York! Let me in!”
Michele! Danielle thought. It was her turn to issue orders. She shouted at York, “Put that weapon away! Let them in! Do it quickly!” And then she spun around on her heels and moved with a purpose. York opened the door.
Michael spilled in, still pulling the senator by his hair; with a painful yank, he threw him into the room and then kicked him in the back.
The senator was sent sprawling into the heavy side of a large mahogany bookcase that adorned the room’s far wall. Nary a book rattled on its sturdy shelves from the impact, but the senator let out a childlike grunt. Faust was holding his hand close to his stomach; his white shirt was soaked crimson.
Danielle shot an angry glance at Michael—at Michele—that was quickly followed by a softer one. On the screen, the face of a confused Jorge Garrido materialized. He tried to speak to the young woman, but she, instead, ran to Michael, jumping into his arms.
Michael reciprocated her emotion as he wrapped tightly the diminutive body of the young Frenchwoman. She seemed to disappear into the bulk of his arms as she buried her face into his chest.
Michael stroked her hair and said, “It’s okay, Danielle, I am fine.”
She pushed herself away from him and replied, “Oh, Michele, mon Dieu, look at you! You are not fine! You are hurt and a painful mess!” And then she bolted forward once more and held him affectionately.
Her care and anger vacillated unannounced; she pushed him away again, this time with a bit of ire: “What is wrong with you?! Jumping through that hotel’s window! I almost fainted when I saw that!”
“You saw that?” asked Michael.
“Yes, Dr. Sterling, everyone did.” But the reply didn’t come from Danielle: it came from Jorge Garrido.
Michael looked over the young woman’s shoulder and saw the face of Jorge Garrido on the screen. Looking back at Danielle, who had stepped to the side, he reached up and gently caressed away her tears. “I am fine, sweetie,” he whispered caringly to her. “Now go and put on some clothes.”
Like a child caught in an act of disobedience by her parent, she obliged without question.
Looking at York, Michael motioned with a nod for him to follow him. The two men walked toward the television. “And who are you?” asked Michael.
“Sir, I am Jorge Garrido, an operations officer at Langley; one of your officers, sir.”
“Is this line secure?” Michael asked, but it was Danielle who responded from behind a wooden changing screen.
“Yes, Michele, it is.” Danielle returned wearing a shimmering red satin robe.
“Sir,” Jorge began, “I was the one tracking you from Pimmit Park to the Geological Society before you disappeared from the grid.”
“So?” Michael flatly stated. But he was purposely pushing Jorge, not trying to antagonize him. Michael had hoped for this call, but he needed to be sure that his message had been received and, more importantly, had been clear.
Jorge sat a bit more upright and cleared his throat. He continued, “Sir, at first I thought…we all thought”—he made sure to add—“… well, we didn’t know what to think. We were following orders to bring you in, but you escaped our custody; and, if you don’t mind me adding, that was really something to see.”
York smiled.
Michael did not. “Get on with it, Mr. Garrido.”
Jorge’s smile evaporated quickly. “Sorry, sir. After you escaped and turned up in Portugal, I was confused. You made your location so obviously known.”
“Again, Mr. Garrido—so?” Michael implied that his patience was wearing thin.
“Sir, I know you did that with purpose; you wanted us to see you in Portugal, to see what you were seeing! I saw the plans for the TBA-480 highvoltage block!”
York looked at Michael curiously but said nothing.
“What makes you so certain about that?” asked Michael.
“Because you wanted us to figure out what you already knew.” Jorge cleared his throat again, and with a growing confidence, continued, “You wanted us to know that the Order is back; that they are in bed with the Iranians and are working to supply al-Qaeda with centrifuges and the plans for the voltage block. Sir, I know that the cargo plane is manifested to deliver those items to Afghanistan. And, sir—”
Garrido lowered his eyes toward the screen and deepened his voice.
“—I know that the man balled up on the floor behind you with the hole in his hand, the one you threw out of the Westminster’s fourth-floor window, is their pawn and their way to make sure their plan works. He is the Order’s way to infiltrate the White House as the new president of the United States.”
Behind the two special operations professionals, a very dejected Senator Faust raised his red and swollen face toward the television screen; his badly damaged hand was still tucked into his gut. He felt just like he had when he had lost the primaries to Senator Door: he felt hopeless and lost.
“And when you said ‘you wanted us to know,’ Mr. Garrido, whom did you mean?”
Michael’s question confused both Danielle and York. The two of them looked at one another for an answer.
But Jorge Garrido, Senator Faust, and Dr. Michael Sterling all already knew the answer missed by Danielle and York. Jorge purposely placed his right hand in front of him on the desk. The second finger of his right hand was adorned with a thick, golden ring. Atop the ring, engraved on its surface, was an ornate golden bee. For the first time in quite a while, Michael cracked a small smile. Mr. Jorge Garrido leaned in, lowered his voice, and answered Michael’s question:
“The Watchmen, sir—you wanted us to know.”
Michael’s smile grew wider.
The plan worked.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
THE FLY’S LAST THOUGHT
PARIS, FRANCE
The driver of the DHL truck was nervous. He felt the sweat line the inside of his yellow and red hat, even though the temperature outside was slightly above a chill.
As he backed the wide-bodied truck to the Louvre’s south-end loading dock, he almost hit the brakes and put it into drive. He imagined the tires of the truck peeling against the asphalt as he sped away.
But he continued in reverse; the intermittent warning of the truck backing up chimed throughout the cabin oppressively.
The driver swallowed a large gulp of air when he put the truck into park, and then exhaled heavily. Jumping out of the cabin, he saw that there were two guards instead of the normal one.
His heart pounded faster.
He thought of his two young boys—twins. This was a lesson that he would never hope for them to learn, but it was their smiling faces, the way they always held hands, that helped him make his choice. The money from this job would allow him to quit and raise them free of the need to work long hours and at odd times.
It wasn’t easy rearing them; their mother had died during the delivery of the first of the two boys, the second requiring an emergency caesarean. He had loved their mother tremendously, but the delivery had been more than difficult—it had been impossible. There was a loss of blood that couldn’t be ebbed.
The doctor had given them a difficult choice during the delivery of the first: his wife or the child.
He couldn’t decide.
His wife had.
With her breaths numbered, she had quietly and peacefully told her husband, “Give them a good life,” and then her eyes closed,
and her last breath exhaled.
The driver accepted this job only to give his wife her dying wish.
Gathering his courage, the driver climbed the short staircase to where the loading dock mated with the back of his truck.
One of the guards eyed him curiously. The driver didn’t recognize him; as confidently as possible, he handed the guard the invoices and paperwork. “I am dropping off four crates and am to pick up two.”
The guard scanned the documents more carefully than normal; he scrutinized each line meticulously.
The driver became more nervous. This wasn’t usually how it happened.
“Everything in order?” he spat out. He was unable to stand the quiet. “I am on a schedule; may I?” He motioned toward the forklift on the dock.
The guard slapped closed the paperwork, signed the front page, and barked, “Oui, go ahead. The paperwork is in order.” The guard stepped aside but kept a watchful eye on the man.
The driver climbed into the small forklift and quickly unloaded the four crates and then loaded up the two that were waiting for him.
When finished, he climbed into his cabin and gripped the steering wheel between the fingers of both hands. A heavy weight lined his stomach, and the sweat hidden inside the brow of his hat had long turned cold. It was when he turned the key of the ignition and the truck lurched forward that the tears came.
The driver tried to control the forceful sobs, but was unable. With each meter that passed, his tears came faster.
“What have I done!” he shouted.
As the Louvre disappeared in the DHL truck’s rearview mirror and its driver struggled with morality, a man standing nearby watched with a growing satisfaction.
When the truck was out of sight, Charney removed his jump suit and found a dumpster nearby in which to toss it. Claude’s stolen radio was in his hand, and Charney had nearly thrown it against the pavement to break it into a number of pieces when it crackled to life.
Charney paused.
