by Joseph Nagle
Those were his favorite moments; hers too.
Her piano-playing was an intense form of foreplay, always followed by the most intimate of their lovemaking. The force and delicate nature of her music, and the intensity of its grasp, flowed into their bedroom. Charney would lose himself in her sonatas while forcing himself to wait for the song’s finish. It was difficult to control his desire to touch her when she played. Her body was erotic and her skill magnetic. But he would sit and watch patiently, salivating at her every move, at her every keystroke.
It was tantric.
It was always worth the wait.
When she was finished, when her fingers had tired, unable to play one more note, she would sit in front of the piano with her eyes closed. She knew what was next. She knew that her one true love sat in the corner, ready to pounce. She could feel his stare burning across her body as she waited. She could feel his desire, his need to touch her, to caress her, to be in her.
She loved it as much as he did.
It forced her to play perfectly.
With her eyes closed, she would wait for his hand upon her shoulder or the caress of his fingertips along her spine.
He always took his time; it was his sonata that he played for her, and like her long, perfectly played concert, their lovemaking was slow and methodical, building into a prolonged, wonderful climax that made them both feel as if their bodies and minds had melded into one. The apex of their efforts was a sonata of their own.
As Charney listened to the music that played overhead, he saw Annette fingering the same song on their piano. He was lost in reality; his hands brushed the epoxy smoothly onto the surface of Samothrace’s pieces. He imagined her hands guiding his in the same manner as she played the piano, as piece after piece came together, as she was being reborn. But at this moment, he was the maestro—the master—and she his audience. He stroked each new piece delicately as he put her back together. His hands glided over the marble, feeling its smooth texture and pure features.
Every pound of his hammer that anchored one piece to the next felt like the pounding of a piano’s key.
Every one of his senses was being overwhelmed.
As the minutes passed, Samothrace was taking shape; the sonata was reaching its crescendo. He never ceased; he was playing his finest song. This was his moment; this was his masterpiece.
His focus never wavered.
His attention was never robbed.
On he worked, like a man possessed.
Samothrace was being reborn.
But all he saw was Annette.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
A SONATA IMPERFECT
PARIS, FRANCE
It had been longer than an hour; that much Sonia knew.
She easily recognized the music that spilled through the small crack under the room’s only door.
It was Beethoven, some of her favorite pieces.
Moonlight, Waldstein, and Appassionata: the sonatas were among some of Beethoven’s best. There were others, too. She knew that an hour had passed, because she knew the length of the different pieces that had played.
Now, Fidelio, Beethoven’s only opera, reverberated throughout her cell.
But she couldn’t enjoy the works; instead, she pressed her back further into the corner of the room. The cold of the hard rock reminded her to be afraid, that she was a prisoner.
The pain was coming, by now she could predict when. Whatever was in her leg was on some kind of cycle, one that she could calculate. Like the contractions that come with pregnancy, they were coming closer in occurrence, longer in duration, and more intense in their pain.
She closed her eyes and bit down hard as a wave of fresh pain struck her thigh. It was as if it was being penetrated by a hot poker.
Sonia fell roughly to her side; her teeth smashed forcibly together as she tried to bear the onslaught of new fire ravaging through her thigh.
The tears came again.
Sonia passed out.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
SEEK AND YE SHALL FIND
PARIS, FRANCE
“Yes, you, kid.”
Michael’s tone was level and serious when he answered York’s question. But that didn’t last long.
Michael pointed his thick forefinger directly at York and boomed, “Kid, listen, you are the only one in this room with the skills to do it! So, I say again, yes, you!”
“But I’m not back at CORe, Doc; I don’t have access to any satellites or the controls!”
Michael curled back his extended forefinger and tapped his own chest. “But I do.” Michael snapped his fingers toward Danielle: “Get that guy, Garrido, back on the horn. Tell him what I need. Make sure he understands that no isn’t an option.”
Danielle hustled toward her communication terminal.
York watched as Danielle went to work and asked, “What the hell am I supposed to do, Doc? Even if you can crack into a satellite, it’s still impossible! I wouldn’t know where to look, or much less where to begin! It would take days, if not weeks, to find a trace of that thief! It’s impossible!”
Michael moved to York and said, “Impossible? A few years ago, you guided me by satellite through Hezbollah-filled streets in Damascus; along the way you were able to pick off armed men on rooftops. The next day, you found and tracked a man who was on what are arguably some of the busiest streets in the world—Rome’s! The guy was on foot and had a mile head start, and you found him by using a thermal scanning satellite. It was a needle in the haystack, kid, but you found him with only the instructions that you were looking for a man whose fingers had been blown off—you used a satellite to find a man in a maze solely by looking for one hand that appeared hotter than the other. I think most would say that was impossible, but you were able to do it.”
Michael put his hand on York’s shoulder. It was the first sign of any affection given to him; his voice was almost soothing. “Kid, if you want to be in the intel game, you will have to get creative; you will have to trust yourself. Your scores in sniper school were the highest ever given, higher than mine. You have the eyes of an eagle, and the intuition of Einstein. You can do this, kid.”
“You saw my scores? How did you…”
Michael cut him off mid-sentence. “Never mind that, kid.” Michael looked over York’s shoulder at Danielle. She looked back and nodded in the affirmative. “Come with me.”
Brushing briskly past York, the two men walked with a purpose to the computer terminal; on one of the two flat panels that sat side by side was the face of Jorge Garrido.
“Sir, your asset filled me in.”
“Her name’s Danielle,” snapped Michael.
Danielle smiled.
Garrido cleared his throat, “Excuse me, sir, Danielle outlined what you needed; I can give you the playback on NROL-32 for five minutes, but not one second longer. I’ve told the NRO that I’m doing some training and need some tape. They’ve cleared me for five minutes of access.”
“Do they have any idea what you’re doing?”
“I told them I wanted to study the damage at the site of Notre Dame; thought that it might help our guys at the Farm, that’s all. I had to pull a couple of really big strings. My contact at the NRO wasn’t happy, but he gave me five minutes.”
“Was L-32 in orbit during the time required?” asked Michael.
“Yes, sir, it was, but you’d better get on it—the clock’s ticking.”
Michael turned to York. “It’s all yours, kid. I suggest you start at the Louvre. Go a few hours back from the first news broadcast of Samothrace’s theft.”
York looked from Michael to Danielle and let out a slow, methodical breath. Sitting down on the chair in front of the computer, he closed his eyes, rolled his head in small circles to relieve the tension in his neck, opened his eyes, and went to work.
The screen displayed a distant image of the Earth from space. York punched some commands and flatly said, “I’ve got it.”
The world expanded through the
satellite’s eyes, and Europe’s western seaboard materialized. The black ink of the Atlantic Ocean disappeared, as the landmass of Europe grew larger. Growing from a ubiquitous brown to differing shades of green, unidentifiable zones of earth shaped from unremarkable countryside into differing types of vegetation. Highways, roads, and undulating hillsides materialized and in moments turned into the snaking streets of Paris. York guided the playback over Paris.
“Find the Louvre.”
“Already there, Doc.”
And Michael saw that he was. Kid’s fast, I’ll give him that, thought Michael.
The playback now showed the symmetrical rooftops of Paris; in the middle of the screen was 4 Place du Louvre, made obvious by I. M. Pei’s seventy-foottall, out-of-place Pharaonic Complex: the Louvre Pyramid. Nearly seven hundred panes of glass shone beneath the satellite’s optics.
The image was slightly mesmerizing as shards of colorful, refracted, and spinning light were caught by the optics of the classified satellite.
But what stood out more and caught the stoic attention of Michael, York, and Danielle was the long plume of bulbous gray and black smoke that billowed slowly nearby, leaving a trail for miles.
It was horrific.
It was a somber symbol that drew a path from the death where it began and marked the rubble that lay beneath its epicenter. What was left of Notre Dame sat just across the cold river waters from the Louvre. The vein of unending smoke was a dreadful reminder of the scores of newly entombed souls that rested beneath broken stone and dismembered architecture.
It was a reminder of the History Thief.
Michael squeezed York’s shoulder, reminding him of their mission—the world mourned collectively for the lost, but they would have to join later.
On the two flat panels in front of York, dizzying images of fragments in time flashed in a blur. York’s eyes snapped left and right, taking in the images from the playback. His fingers were moving fast, his eyes even faster. Michael and Danielle glanced at one another; neither could make sense of any of the images.
But York could.
Michael checked his watch; Danielle wasn’t sure if it was to keep track of the five minutes granted by the NRO, or the countdown occurring inside of his leg.
The fast-moving images on the screen continued. York was focused. All that Michael could tell was that day had turned into night.
Michael couldn’t take it any longer. “What are you looking for, kid?”
No answer.
Danielle gave Michael a nudge in his side and a glare as if to say let him work!
Michael was getting anxious, but York didn’t notice. Onward he pressed, not feeling the bit of sweat that had drizzled from his left temple and down his cheek.
All breathing in the Parisian apartment felt as if it had ceased. The airy interior was a vacuum, robbing all sound and feeling until…
“There!”
York’s shout had broken the silence, causing Danielle to jump slightly.
Michael moved in closer.
“There, Doc. Right there! Do you see it?”
“I don’t believe it. That’s gotta be it, kid! Can you track it?”
York had zoomed in on a bright yellow DHL cargo truck that had backed into the Louvre’s loading dock near Rue de Rivoli, one of Paris’s most famous streets named for Napoleon’s battle of Rivoli against Austria.
The playback showed two men—clearly security guards—on the dock, while a third loaded large wooden boxes into the truck via a small forklift.
“Of course I can track it, Doc, but—”
York was interrupted. On the other screen, an anxious and nervous Jorge Garrido jumped in. “Sir, I’ve got to cut the feed, and now! Time’s up!”
“One more minute, Garrido! This is my wife we’re talking about!”
“Sir, I can’t give you another minute. The NRO has control of the playback. They gave me five minutes; it will end whether I want to give you more time or not.”
The screen upon which the satellite images had been fed went black.
“Damn it, Garrido!” Michael shouted as he slammed both fists onto the desk.
“Sorry, sir, but you know the risk. They’ll find you.”
He was right, thought Michael. And then it hit him. “Garrido, you get on the horn with those all-seeing sages at the NRO and get me one minute more of playback. You tell ’em your wife called and was bitching about you being late for dinner or some other bullshit; you tell ’em that you lost track of time; I don’t give a shit what you tell ’em, just get me one more fucking minute!”
“Sir, I can’t!”
“One minute, Garrido! Just one goddamn minute! Now, do it! I won’t take another word from your mouth other than yes and sir put together!”
Garrido frowned, but replied sheepishly, “Yes, sir.”
Michael snapped his head toward Danielle and demanded, “You still have that contact with the Préfecture?”
“Oui, Michele. What are you thinking?” She ignored his temper and intensity, knowing them both all too well.
“Find him; my hunch is that sometime shortly after the truck left the loading dock, they found it burning and abandoned somewhere; it probably came with a body. Ask your contact if they came across such a thing; I want to know where it is!”
York smiled.
Danielle was on the phone.
“Why the shit-eating grin?”
“Cuz I know what you’re doing?”
“Is that right? Enlighten me, kid.” Michael’s tone evened out a bit.
“Every DHL truck has a GPS transponder in it; it’s how they track routes, deliveries; how anyone waiting on a package can go online and track it in real time. We find that truck, we can find its last delivery.”
Michael sat down and waited. The pain in his leg rippled a wave of throbbing heat unlike any he had ever felt.
York saw this but knew better than to say anything. Looking over at Danielle, she refused to acknowledge that she had seen the same thing and focused on her phone call.
The moments trickled by; Garrido had not come back, and Danielle was still busy on the phone. Her conversation was animated.
Just as York opened his mouth to say something, anything, Danielle yelled out, “You were right, Michele, the Préfecture found a truck!” She handed Michael a piece of paper; on it was an address in the Aulnay-sous-Bois.
“This is the location of the DHL truck?”
“Better!”
“Better?”
“It’s the address of the place where the driver made his last delivery.”
Michael lifted his chin from his chest and stared at the piece of paper before taking it. It was small and ripped unevenly. It seemed so insignificant and worthless. But when he did finally take it from Danielle, it felt heavy in his hand. He looked at it; on it was an address. This could be where his wife was being held. For a moment—albeit a brief one—Michael froze.
Danielle’s smooth voice interrupted his thoughts, “Michele, my contact said they checked out the address. It was clean. An old warehouse, that’s all. The caretaker had an alibi and showed them the delivery, some books he had purchased on the Internet.”
Garrido’s face reappeared on one of the LCD screens. “Sir, I’ve bought you thirty seconds. That’s the best I could do. You’d better move.”
“Kid, pull up this address,” Michael handed York the piece of paper.
It was his only chance. If he were wrong, both he and Sonia would be dead.
Simple as that.
Michael stared on as York went back to work.
The satellite playback hovered overhead. It was as Danielle had said: an old warehouse.
“Increase magnification three-fold; go thermal. Show me what’s hot inside that building,” demanded Michael.
York complied.
The building appeared larger on the screen as York magnified the image. Michael was looking for heat signatures that were human. York flipped the image to thermal; th
e concrete and masonry melted away. The building took on a ghostly appearance. Michael eyed the warehouse from corner to corner. He saw the heated outlines of the large furnace, a stove, and the building’s heating ducts. He also saw a man moving; the man looked like he was working. It was hard to see much else. Michael had no idea that the Parian marble that tiled much of the building’s floors was blocking the satellite’s ability to see through all of the warehouse’s four levels.
“Ten seconds, sir.” Garrido’s voice was anxious.
“Increase magnification. Move to the southeast corner of the building.” Something had caught Michael’s eye. He strained to make anything out of the tiny fleck of a white blur that he saw.
“Three seconds,” shouted Garrido.
Then the screen went black.
York slumped in his chair.
Danielle held her hand to her mouth.
But Michael smiled.
He had gazed at the blur for the few seconds he had left, and nothing had happened. The small white fleck of nothing could have meant anything. But as the screen went black, it had moved.
It was subtle; few would have seen it.
York didn’t see it; Danielle either.
But Michael did.
It was alive. The white fleck was hours old; there was no telling if it was still there. But Michael had hope.
Sonia.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
ONE HOUR, TWO LIVES
AULNAY-SOUS-BOIS
The night had grown cold, and the shiver that ran through Gerald caused him to pause. Quickly, he fastened the top button of his coat, but that didn’t help much. He cursed the bite in the air and himself for not wearing something more proper.
His intention had not been to stand unseen in the corners, but he had no choice. His mission had unexpectedly changed. On his way to retrieve from the thief the vellum, he had nearly run into two men.
Both were tall, capable-looking, and American.
They had paid him little attention; there was no reason to; they had never seen him before.
But Gerald had seen them—in photos—and he knew quite well who they were.
