by Joseph Nagle
Faust paused and took a deep breath. He held it in for a moment before slowly exhaling. He would enjoy saying his next sentence, and he wanted to savor it: “By my calculations, you have about two hours; it would seem that all I have to do is to wait.”
The once defeated senator sat back easily. He had played his final move. His cards were on the table, and both men knew it. There was no poker face; there was no need. The once high-rising senator was very aware that his ambitions now rested on the efficacy of the tiny device embedded on the wall of Michael’s femoral artery.
Michael thought about Faust’s words for a moment; he knew Faust was right. If he didn’t survive the next two hours, all would be for nothing. He asked, “And my wife? Why her?”
Faust appeared as if he were going mad. He dropped his eyes toward his lap and chuckled like a near insane man. After sighing heavily, he raised his head and bore a deep, truly hate-filled gaze into Michael’s eyes. “Your wife, Dr. Sterling, is just another means to an end. She’ll have a Heart Attack, too. Her life is no more important than that of every other filthy rodent that walks blindly through time. The majority of you were never meant to be more than our servants! You haven’t the capacity to govern yourselves; that is why we are here! So, you see, Dr. Sterling, if you have any hope of saving yourself or your wife, you and I will negotiate a different ending!”
The men were nearly face-to-face.
That was Faust’s mistake.
As his rants grew in length, he had leaned closer to Michael. Perhaps it was because so much anger was flowing through Michael, or perhaps it was because the opportunity was too good to pass up. Regardless of the reason, Michael’s elbow swung out in a wide and vicious arc, landing square on the senator’s nose.
“There will be no negotiating, Matthew!” shouted Michael.
It took Faust a moment to feel the pain, which robbed him of his breath. His body had flown backward; he was slumped somewhat in the chair. White specks of unconsciousness floated in front of him. But he didn’t pass out—not because the pain wouldn’t let him, but from the strong hold Michael now had on his damaged hand.
Michael clamped down forcibly.
Faust wanted to scream but could not. The pain was too ferocious. It was as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
And when he was finally able to appreciate fully the pain, it came in full force and was followed by fear. Without warning, Michael was on both feet and had the senator by the collar. With a slight shove, he created enough separation between them to firmly plant the heel of his shoe deep into Faust’s left side—just as promised.
The kick was violent and well placed.
With a lengthy, odd groan, Faust writhed on the floor, unable to deal with the onset of fresh, new pain. Its intensity forced the senator’s eyes to roll backward as if he were trying to stare into the back of his own head.
It was then that he did pass out.
Michael stood uneasily over the senator, doing his best to maintain his balance, and shook his head in disgust. Picking up his drink from the nearby table, he tilted his head and threw back what was left of his glass of vodka, downing its remnants in one long swallow. Danielle motioned, asking him if he wanted another. If the events that had just transpired bothered her, she didn’t show it. Michael shook his head in the negative, declining the offer for a fresh drink—rare for him these days—and then told York, “Put him in the closet, kid; we don’t need him for what’s next. He’s garbage: unwanted, not needed, and dirtied.”
“You’re not going to interrogate him? He might know more!”
“He can’t help us any more than he already has.”
“So we’re just going to leave him?” shouted York.
“We’ll deal with him later; right now, we have a thief to catch and my wife to find. My bet is that they are in the same place.” Michael looked at the senator, who, for the first time in quite some time, had absolutely nothing to add to the conversation.
Not that he could.
Senator Faust was on the floor, having contracted his body into a tight fetal position. His breaths were labored and short. Michael could see that his body was fighting with consciousness, but he asked anyway, “I’m right, aren’t I, Matthew? If I find your thief, I will find my wife?”
The only response from the senator was a slight, painful groan, but in his mind, the senator repeated the same two words over and over again: two hours.
Michael motioned to York, who obeyed the silent command and roughly yanked the senator from the floor and dragged him toward the closet. Once there, York tossed him in, and Faust doubled over awkwardly; he favored his left side as he spilled into the closet.
With a loud thud, York slammed the door shut and bolted it.
Inside of the closet, Senator Faust felt slivers of icy-hot pain jab deep into his side. His nose had already swollen beyond its normal size. His breaths were short and difficult, and he fought to get them under control; tears forced their way between his tightly shut eyelids.
It was then that Michael’s world spun; his knees buckled as he felt his balance slip. The kick to the senator’s side had taken too much energy. Michael fell heavily to his knees. Danielle shrieked loudly, “Mon Dieu! Michele, what is wrong with you?”
Inside of the closet, the senator heard Michael’s fall. It forced a painful smile as he whispered, “And counting…”
Danielle ran toward Michael and helped York pick him up. Together, the two of them brought Michael back to his chair. Michael looked down at his watch and let out a near-defeated sigh.
Two hours.
The senator was right.
Time was running out.
Michael brushed both of their hands away. With a slight shake in his voice, he replied to Danielle, “Nothing is wrong with me, I’m just tired. Give me a minute.”
Danielle stood upright, dismissing Michael’s lie with a shake of her head. “Tell me the truth, Michele! Look at you! Your face is green and your skin clammy. What is happening to you?”
She then looked to York—the young Green Beret couldn’t mask the look of guilt on his face, and Danielle easily saw this.
With movements that were by far faster than York could have imagined, Danielle reached behind her back and extracted a small chrome-plated Glock. The barrel of the pistol was pushed into the middle of York’s chest. If it hadn’t been so surreal, it would have been funny. York put his hands back as she screamed, “Tell me! Tell me now, or I will put a bullet into your heart!”
Michael smiled proudly at her skills. He couldn’t help but let out a slight laugh when he said, “You’d better tell her, kid, before she pulls the trigger. I can tell that she’s quite serious.”
York slowly put his index finger on the barrel of the pistol and eased it away from his chest. Danielle didn’t fight him.
“They put a device into the Doc’s leg. It’s counting down.”
Danielle let the pistol fall to her side. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she took a few steps backward. “Device, what sort of device? Why would it be counting down?” Her questions weren’t necessary; all knew exactly why it was counting down.
York looked at his watch and then at Michael, who nodded slightly in the affirmative.
Danielle snapped her head between the two men and with a muffled, silent voice said, “You tell me, Michele: what is it? What is it going to do?” Although she already knew the answer, she still asked the question.
The reality of Michael’s situation slapped hard across her face. Her hands became unsteady, they were shaking, and the gun dropped from her hand loudly to the floor. She shook her head back and forth and mouthed the word no over and over again.
“How long?” she was finally able to ask.
Michael shrugged and replied, “Two hours, give or take.”
Danielle’s face went white, void of any determinable emotion other than fear. She raised both hands to her face and covered her mouth as if trying to force out the words she wanted to
say, as if the action would erase reality. For a moment, the room was empty of sound and motion.
In a burst, Danielle ran toward Michael and fell into his lap. Michael grimaced, but grabbed onto her tightly.
In his lap, her body was curled tightly like that of a child’s. Her tears flowed faster, and she wrapped her arms around Michael’s neck. She squeezed him hard, afraid to let him go. He reciprocated and pulled her closer as he stroked her hair. Her body convulsed in slight, periodic throbs as her crying continued.
Michael shushed her quietly as he continued to comfort her.
York stared at the very intimate sight, unsure of what he was seeing, but deciding it was best to say nothing.
Finally, Michael spoke to her as he stroked her face gently. “Danielle—Danielle, my sweet baby girl, look at me.”
Danielle lifted her head and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. Through sniffles, she asked, “Were you not going to tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“So it’s true,” she sobbed. “What next, Michele? What are we supposed to do?”
Prophetically, the CNN news channel that had been playing quietly in the background displayed a stark red screen along with ominous music. The French words for Breaking News flashed brightly.
Michael turned his head toward the television, and Danielle sat up. There wasn’t any need to translate the words; the headline was obvious, but Danielle interpreted the words on the screen anyway:
“Impossible! Samothrace stolen from the Louvre!”
She turned toward Michael and asked with confused eyes, “Michele, what does this mean?”
But Michael didn’t answer Danielle’s question directly. Instead he looked over at York and said, “Time for you to find the thief, kid.”
“Me?” It was the only thing York could think to say.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
A PERFECT SONATA
AULNAY-SOUS-BOIS
Generations ago the Aulnay-sous-Bois had been lined with the same thick, deciduous, and serrated canopies of the alder groves that had at one time dominated its countryside boundaries. Where in centuries past prized stags, trophy boars, and abundant wildlife had thrived, now the remnants of the ancient forests were sliced with cheaply constructed homes and industrial buildings for a new kind of wildlife.
The countryside was gone; urban Paris was in her place.
Fourteen centuries ago, Bonititus, a Gallo-Roman landowner, controlled the land, which is now called Aulnay-sous-Bois: a small, unkempt part of greater Paris.
As time passed, the family-run estate had lost control of what was then known as the Bondy Forest to the downtrodden and the destitute: the forest became a sanctuary for the most violent members of society and belonged solely to the criminals.
Some might say that there was a bit of poetic justice granted to those destined during the Middle Ages to live their lives as thieves and beggars; to those that called the Bondy Forest home, having stolen it from the aristocracy—from those that put them there. The wealthy land barons drove them away, wanting to rid the streets of their unsightly ways.
From the cosmopolitan streets of Paris they were sent to the forest—out of sight, out of mind—and from the very bourgeois that put them there, they claimed the stolen forest as theirs.
Naturally, they created their own society with their own, unwritten rules; a place reserved only for their kind: the Bondy Forest paved the way for the Aulnay-sous-Bois.
Only the men and women that belonged in the Bois dared walk her streets. As it was during the Middle Ages, the forest belonged to those cast away, as does the Bois today.
Time changes little.
Bandits and robbers—Charney was the best of them, and through the Bois he walked proudly. None dared to cross him. He was an untouchable among untouchables.
Charney’s building—his home—was outwardly unkempt as any of the neighborhoods’ buildings and homes. But inside it was the opposite: it smelled of opulence and radiated comfort.
On this night, throughout its impressive interior, speakers recessed into the ceiling resonated music from corner to corner, from floor to floor. Beethoven’s methodical and evenly paced Piano Sonata Number 14—the Moonlight Sonata—filled the air.
Charney was high on his accomplishment.
His emotions and movements were symbiotic with the music. Synchronous with the Sonata’s first movement, he floated across the room, dancing gaily in a cloud of his success. The individual strokes of the piano played in C minor struck his body; he could hear every note separately, he could feel the slight shifts from pianissimo to mezzo forte.
The music was so clear.
His thoughts were unflawed.
He had never felt so perfect.
Delicately, he held a wine glass by its stem between his forefinger and thumb, careful not to spill a drop as he twirled about. It would have been sacrilege to hold the glass in his palm, a mistake that most new connoisseurs make. The heat from his palm would have warmed the chilled wine, changing both its bouquet and unique hallmarks while ruining the music and his moment.
The wine mated perfectly with the adrenaline that still flowed heavily throughout his veins. His mind was a tangle of inebriated emotion and elation from both the events of the night and the nearly finished bottle of a 2007 Louis Jadot Macon Chardonnay. The wine was by no means pretentious; there were far better Chardonnays, but this was one still to be loved. He slowly spun the contents that remained and peered at them through the glass. The vintage was a pale, greenish color, and, as he gazed through it, the wine distorted the shape and color of the oak boxes containing Samothrace that had been delivered to his home a short time ago.
There she lay; she was now his; he had his masterpiece. Nearby, the missing arms, the original right wing, and Samothrace’s marble head—pieces of the statue that have long thought to be missing—sat atop the floor, waiting to be returned to their rightful places. It had taken years, and a small ransom, to acquire the missing pieces, but now Charney had everything to put her back together, to bring her back.
Charney walked slowly around the boxes, allowing his fingers to drag across the wood as he did. He could hear her beckoning to him. The smooth planks of the oak were occasionally interrupted by a nail or rough patch in the grain. The blend of smooth wood with the occasional fault reminded Charney of the imperfections to the Hellenistic masterpiece that lay inside the boxes, imperfections that he would soon correct. In his other hand was the glass of Chardonnay. The bottle that sat nearby was nearly finished, and he had enjoyed every sip, every smell of the simple vintage.
Putting the bulbous glass to his nose, he inhaled its aroma deeply. He was met with hints of light citrus and pineapple; it was a perfect pairing to the evening’s Sonata and the night’s work. While the scent still burned in his nose, he sipped. Closing his eyes, he enjoyed the cool spill of the liquid over the back of his throat; the crisp acidity of the wine blended perfectly with the thrill in the air and the music in his ears.
He opened his eyes when the glass was empty.
The Sonata had ended.
It was time.
Picking up a crowbar, Charney opened the lids of the boxes and eyed the contents. The dismembered stones of Samothrace glistened under his home’s lights. Quickly, he removed each piece, assembling them loosely on the floor.
Although the pieces of marble were small, they were dense and heavy. A layer of perspiration grew across his brow, soon collecting into thick droplets that ran down his cheeks and back as he heaved them from box to floor.
His shirt quickly became soaked with his sweat as he worked with care and attention. Adrenaline flowed through his veins, and his slight inebriation coupled with his labored breathing added to the effect: he felt as if he stood breathless on top of the world.
Once all of the pieces were lined upon the floor, Charney stepped back. Like a broken puzzle, she covered the floor, ready to be put together. He hadn’t noticed before
, but his shirt was sticking to his body from his efforts. He removed it and tossed it aside.
The well-lit room was split by shadows that bounced off of his torso. His well-defined, statuesque physique matched the cut marble of many of his trophies. He traced his fingers blindly down his taut skin and undulating musculature as he intensely eyed Samothrace’s pieces.
Soon she would be put back together.
He smiled at the anticipation; it aroused him.
Slowly, Charney walked around the pieces of marble; with each step he was reminded of Annette. With each foot forward, he felt that she was closer, reaching out to him. He could hear her voice, see her face—she was guiding him.
The two-part epoxy glue that sat on his worktable was simple but fastacting; it was extremely strong. He was careful as he mixed together the exact amounts necessary; his movements were in time with the new sonata playing overhead, one that was more powerful; his actions were balletic and in tandem with its tempo.
Beethoven was Annette’s favorite.
Time and time again, Annette would play different pieces by Beethoven on their Steinway grand piano while he sat in the corner watching her. She had gracefully fingered the keys, delicately when necessary and with force where appropriate. The music absorbed her, and him right along with her. Annette’s fingers stroked the keys magically, and her body would sway in a rhythmic blur. Too many times to count, Charney would sit in quiet amazement at her finesse and strength as she played even the most difficult of Beethoven’s sonatas. Annette’s ability was both brilliant and perfected.
