by Joseph Nagle
Dr. Michael Sterling, deputy director of the CIA’s Clandestine Services, and Staff Sergeant York of the American Army’s Special Forces—a Green Beret — were widely known to members of the Order. He watched as both men moved away from him; Sterling was limping slightly, but he still moved with strength.
At the sight of the two men, Gerald gripped his pistol firmly and traced his index finger over the trigger. With his eyes firmly latched onto the backs of the two men, he started to pull the weapon from his pocket.
They would make easy targets, not expecting their enemy to be so close.
Gerald grinned wickedly.
Putting a bullet into each of their backs will be an easy task, he thought.
Gerald’s bloodlust disappeared; he thought twice about it, and, instead, reached for his phone.
The distinct sound of the European ring was interrupted halfway through the second one. “Oui,” the scientist answered.
“I am at the thief’s home, and so are Sterling and York. I can kill both men easily; what are my orders?” inquired Gerald.
There was a moment of prolonged silence as the scientist digested the change in events. Gerald was sure that the old man had covered the mouthpiece of his phone and was conferring with someone, most likely the Primitus.
When the scientist returned, his voice nearly startled Gerald. “We must presume that the two Americans are there to retrieve the vellum, too. The men can be of help to us, and to you. Do not interfere; let the situation come to fruition. If the Americans leave, follow them, but keep a safe distance; do not be seen! Is this understood?”
“Of course, but I can just as easily kill them! I have the shot available to me now!” Gerald’s ego had jumped in the way of his sense. The moment he had raised his voice to the scientist, he was sure that a return volley of vitriol was coming and waited for it.
He was surprised that it did not come.
“Monsieur—” The scientist’s voice had a trace of respect in it. “We appreciate your courage and conviction; your service to the Order has been and is still immensely valuable, exemplified by your elevation to the next level. But it seems that fate has intervened. Whatever happens inside of that home is to our advantage.”
“Advantage? How so?” Gerald was more than curious. He watched as both Michael and York vanished into the shadows of the thief’s home.
“If the thief is able to handle the two Americans, then we have one less problem to manage. If not, then we will not have to pay him the remaining monies owed, will we? If this is the case, you will follow the Americans to see where that vellum leads them. Either outcome benefits us.”
Gerald wasn’t so sure. He was quite aware of the capabilities of both special operations professionals. “And if I am unable to track both men?”
Gerald couldn’t see the large smile across the old scientist’s face, but he heard it in his reply. “You will not need to track both, only the Green Beret.”
“Just him? Why?”
“Dr. Sterling has less than one hour to live, Gerald. It is of no concern what happens inside of that thief’s home. Either way, Sterling will die. My presumption is that the Green Beret will give you fewer problems than Sterling, no?”
“No.” Now it was Gerald’s turn to smile. “He will not be a problem.”
“Good.”
The line went dead.
Gerald returned to the shadows and waited. Shoving his hands into his pockets, in the right one, he felt the heavy, metal medallion that hung from his key chain. With the tips of his right fingers, he could feel the blackened letters that were etched into the metal—De Opresso Liber—to free the oppressed.
It was the motto of the Green Berets.
Gerald had been a Green Beret, too, one of the best. But the Order’s mission was a greater calling, albeit a similar one to the Green Berets: to liberate humanity from its oppressor, from itself.
A sharp wind reminded him of the cold’s bite. With his left hand, he pulled his coat tighter and shivered away his discomfort.
He had felt worse; he had been in worse.
Less than an hour. That would be the longest he would have to wait.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
SOMETHING’S MISSING
AULNAY-SOUS-BOIS
Charney sat in the plush but firm Elizabethan chair; both of his forearms rested heavily on its gilded arms. He was both spent and satisfied. Every muscle ached, and his breathing was still slightly labored.
The evening’s work had been a marathon.
Slowly he raised his arm and put the cigarette to his lips. His inhale was long, and the smoke burned slightly in his lungs.
He exhaled and saw her silhouette through the cloud of smoke that billowed from his lips.
Every piece of him hurt. His shoulders, hands, back, and legs: every part of him had been used to bring her back to life.
Even his fingertips screamed from the night’s work. Looking at them, Charney could see that they were swollen and somewhat bloodied.
He had never felt better.
Here she was, in his home and in front of him.
Throwing his head back, he closed his eyes and thought of Annette, of her smile and her smell; he thought of the sound of her voice and her piano play. He thought of how much she loved Samothrace, of how much he adored her, loved her.
Now she was here.
She was home.
Opening his eyes, he stared at his love. Her marble wings were cast wide, and her gaze shouted victory. On the bow of a ship she stood with her body strong and her purpose known. She told the world of her triumph.
Charney shed no tears. This surprised him. His satisfaction was there, of this he was certain, but he now felt as if the climax were not absolute.
Shuffling uneasily in the chair at this thought, Charney stared at Samothrace. It was his life’s work, and before him she stood magnificently. But he couldn’t help but feel that something was still missing.
He didn’t know what.
Prophetically, a low chime spilled from the hallway and into the room. Surprised, Charney stood and moved quickly to the monitor mounted on the hallway wall.
As he gazed at it, he found it interesting that he wasn’t immediately concerned, but more so was thankful.
He smiled.
On the small LCD screen, two shadows—two men—were snaking their way through the first floor of his home.
Charney recognized the Green Beret and the spy.
The final inhale of his cigarette sizzled close to his lips. He felt its heat nearly singe his skin; his heart rate began to rise, and his senses were alert. He dropped the butt to the floor.
He now knew what was missing—every victory requires a sacrifice.
In this case, there would be two.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
COMPLETE CONTROL
AULNAY-SOUS-BOIS
Michael and York moved slowly through the long hallway of the History Thief’s home. The floor was smooth and hard; the marble helped to make their movements quiet.
Motioning to York, Michael pointed to a stairwell.
York nodded his understanding.
Inside of it, both men eased their way upward and toward the fourth floor, where the satellite images had shown a man who had been working.
There, they drew their pistols at the ready. Michael exhaled slowly and nodded for York to go low and motioned that he would go high.
York bent into a crouch as Michael turned the brass knob slowly.
A slow crack of low light split the door and frame. Music met their ears—Beethoven.
Both men moved as professionals. Every step was calculated, every muscle under control. Everything that they saw, all sound that could be heard, the feel of the air on their skin, even the taste of the atmosphere was being processed at lightning speed as it was absorbed by their cortexes.
This was not a time for mistakes or miscalculations. Everything meant something, even the lack of anything.
B
oth men were spread strategically about the room, conducting a flawless military operation in urban terrain (MOUT). Michael wished that they could use a flashbang grenade or some other type of distracter device—standard operating procedure for MOUT—but they had only their instincts and abilities to react. Both men knew precisely the role that each should take. They couldn’t see one another, but they both knew where the other was.
“Clear,” whispered York.
“Clear,” replied Michael in a similar tone.
The room was empty.
But empty wasn’t exactly true; although the History Thief was absent, the room was full, overwhelmingly so.
Michael couldn’t help but try to soak it all in; inside of the expansive room were scores of priceless works of art. So many that it astounded both men.
He saw a Titian and some Picassos, which straddled a Kooning. There was also a Renoir and some small Rembrandts. There was more than one Monet and a large Klimt.
Strewn about atop pedestals and shelves were statues, vases, and carvings.
Some Michael recognized; others he did not.
But what stood out dramatically was the large statue that adorned the middle of the room. It was as impressive as it was overbearing. A dim spotlight lit its curves; Michael had never seen the Winged Victory of Samothrace up close, but he knew of her appeal.
She was both erotic and strong.
She spoke of power and grace.
Her message was triumph and victory.
Michael edged closer to the statue, impressed that the thief had been able to break into the Louvre and steal it.
It was so big.
Standing before it, he still kept a sharp eye on the rest of the room. He could sense that the thief was still in the building. He knew that his Sonia was here, too.
Michael paused and played out the next steps in his mind, working to figure their next moves. York instinctively turned one hundred and eighty degrees so that both men had the room wholly covered.
“Doc, what do ya think? He bugged out?” asked York over his shoulder.
“No, he’s here,” was Michael’s flat reply.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Take a whiff, kid; can you smell that?”
York obliged and inhaled through his nostrils deeply. It took a moment, and the smell was faint. He hadn’t noticed it before, but enough of it had lingered that its traces could be discerned among the smells of damp air, marble, stone, wood, and canvas.
“Yeah, I can smell it. Cigarettes.”
Michael pointed to the floor. “Filthy habit.” On the floor where Michael pointed was the remnant of the History Thief’s last cigarette. “Keep your eyes sharp; watch your six, kid. Let’s clear the floors starting from this one, and work our way down to the southeast corner.”
Michael was following standard MOUT procedure. Clear the rooms; get to the objective. It was the obvious thing to do, but what he didn’t know—and couldn’t possibly know—was that the History Thief’s home had hidden passageways behind most of its walls.
The two men expertly cleared the fourth and third floor.
From inside the walls, Charney paced both men, watching their every move. He was growing more amused as each minute passed. He would wait for the right moment, when the men had made it to the first floor. He would wait until they were in the last corner of his home. He would kill the young one first and do away with him quickly.
The older man—the deputy director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Services—he would save. He had something very special for him. Charney had killed many; killing was a proven skill, and one that he had accomplished in many ways. But there was one way in which he had not yet killed. After realizing this, it Charney knew precisely what was missing from the evening’s triumph.
Tonight, Charney had had his masterpiece in theft, but that hadn’t been enough. There was one final masterpiece still to acquire; it was the most priceless thing a man could have: another’s life in his hands.
Complete control.
After tonight, he would no longer steal again.
And after tonight, he would not kill again.
He had killed in so many ways, in nearly every way fathomable, except for one. Tonight, Dr. Michael Sterling would die; he would die in the most difficult manner conceivable.
Through a small peephole in the wall that appeared as nothing more than a painting from the other side, Charney eyed the men.
He smiled as he watched the two move unimpeded through his home.
Quickly, Charney turned and made his way to the sub-level of his home.
The smile draped across his face never left but only grew wider as he anticipated his final masterpiece.
Dr. Michael Sterling’s life would end, but it would not be at the hand of the History Thief.
No.
Dr. Michael Sterling would die at his own hand.
He would kill himself, and his wife would watch.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
YORK’S DEAD
IN THE HOME OF THE
THIEF
The two special operations professionals were about to move to the home’s sub-level.
It was time, thought Charney, as he watched intensely, seeing his opportunity.
Michael had just turned a corner, which would take him to a staircase leading to the sub-level; a few steps behind, York followed. It was a mistake. Neither man could have possibly known.
Charney pushed a button on the wall next to where he stood. From the ceiling, an iron partition slammed to the ground, separating the two men.
Michael spun around.
York froze.
The two men were facing one another, but they were split apart by the metal divide, unable to see each other.
Michael instantly knew that they had been guided into a trap. He knew that the outcome would be bad. He should have run, but shouted to York anyway. York tried to respond, but in the place of his words was a single gunshot.
York fell, scratching at the metal partition as he slumped unevenly to the ground. He was unable to move or speak.
A pool of warm blood began to spread across the pale marble. York’s eyes closed.
Michael heard the shot and the sound of York’s body falling to the ground.
He pounded the door, but there was no answer.
Michael was a trained man; this wasn’t the first time that he had lost a man, but that didn’t make it any easier. He was growing fond of the kid.
Michael closed his eyes and banged the meat of his fists against the iron. No answer. With his palms pressed against the cold metal, he quietly exhaled his only thought through clenched teeth. “Damn!”
Turning, he didn’t want to leave and hesitated. But he had no choice. He moved onward to find his wife.
Charney returned the pistol to its holster. He could feel the warmth from its barrel and smell the carbon from the single shot.
One down, one more to go.
Enjoying his thought and moving with a purpose, he had to get to the cellar before Michael did.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
SOMEONE WOULD DIE
IN SONIA’S CELL
Sonia heard the footsteps coming closer.
They stopped at the door. She saw the shadows cast by the person’s feet through the bottom of the door’s frame, as they perforated the only open space of her cell.
She pressed her back harder into the stone wall, knowing full well that doing so amounted to nothing. It was merely a protective instinct. There was no escape, no avoiding what—who—was coming. She had grown accustomed to being afraid, but this time it was worse. Sonia heard the high-pitched grating of a key being slipped into the door’s lock.
Her heart palpitated unevenly as the tumblers of the lock turned.
He was coming into her prison. She couldn’t breathe and gulped with near futility for air.
Frantically, she snapped her head to the left and then to the right; her eyes darted wildly. She grasped ch
ildishly at the bulbous, cold walls. If she were looking in from the outside, the scene would have either amused or terrified her: there was nowhere that she could possibly go and likewise nothing that she could fathom to do.
But yet she erratically clawed at nothing and searched for something.
Her fear took over; it consumed her as the door cracked slowly open.
She gasped meekly, “No, no!” Sonia’s pleas mattered little to Charney. The sight of the frantic and feeble woman with her back smashed into the wall came across as comical to him. He owned her emotions, her destiny.
Sonia was broken from her captivity; she couldn’t recognize herself through her actions. She didn’t feel like the strong woman she knew she was.
The stone room lit brightly; it was the first real light that Sonia’s eyes had seen in nearly two days. She knew her pupils had dilated quickly at the onslaught of the light, but she was unaware that it would hurt so much and closed her eyes in defense as the room was showered in painful brightness.
Before she could re-open them, she heard him move to her; she felt his strong hands yank her from the wall and spin her around. She felt the roughness from the short stubble on his cheeks and chin scratch across her skin.
His breathing was heavy, but controlled, and ubiquitous; it smelled of tobacco and citrus, a combination of her abductor’s last cigarette and bottle of consumed wine.
It made her think of Michael and his rugged face, of the wine that she often smelled on his breath. The fear that she had made her next reaction odd: she smiled.
Michael. There could only be one reason why her abductor had suddenly appeared. It had to be.
But the smile soon faded, quickly replaced with the return of the fear that had haunted her for the previous forty-eight hours.
“Mrs. Sterling.” The thief’s words were baritone and smooth, his accent French: “It would seem that we have a guest.”
“Doctor,” she spat defiantly and was surprised at her terse response.
Charney smiled at what strength his captive had left. “Pardon me, Doctor Sterling, it would seem that my manners have escaped me. Forgive me for my disrespect.”
