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

by Joseph Nagle

  The words were difficult to say; Michael blamed himself. “I know. I am so sorry, Sonia. This is my fault. You should have never been a part of this. I should have quit the Company when I had the chance.”

  Sonia’s reply to her husband was stern. “Stop that, Michael! Just stop right now; don’t you dare blame yourself for this! I won’t have it! I have accepted what you do and know full well the risks as the wife of the deputy director of the Clandestine Services. This world needs you, but it doesn’t need some whining sap that puts his tail between his legs every time things get a bit tough!”

  Michael’s couldn’t help it when he smiled at the fire in his wife.

  “Now what? What’s going to happen?”

  Michael remained silent. He didn’t want to give her the answer. But she knew what it would be. The outcome didn’t look good.

  Michael slumped flat to the floor. He saw the dead History Thief on one side of the room; he saw the dejected look on York’s face. He didn’t look at Sonia, but he knew that pain would be draped over her gaze.

  He couldn’t bring himself to see her this way.

  Instead he traced the walls of the room with his eyes until the path put his stare into the hallway. A small lamp was on a decorative table doing its best to keep the narrow passage illuminated. Its low-wattage light spilled onto the white Parian marble.

  Its cord was slightly frayed.

  “Michael, what are we supposed to do?” asked Sonia again. She wanted an answer, one that Michael didn’t seem to have.

  Michael laughed quietly when he thought about the safety hazard created by the frayed cord; it was a bit dangerous. It was an absurd thought to have had. He was minutes from death, his wife hours, and all he could think about was a damn frayed lamp cord.

  Michael stared at the lamp wishing a light bulb of his own would turn on over his own head.

  And then one did.

  Michael closed his eyes and calculated the possibilities. The answer was always the same. Opening his eyes, he reached up and pulled Sonia close. He kissed her deeply and held her tightly.

  Pulling apart slightly from one another, Sonia smiled at her husband and caressed his rough cheeks. She put the tip of her nose to his and absorbed every smell, feel, and sensation from him that she could.

  Quietly, she said, “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Michael stared through her as if lost in thought.

  Sonia knew the new look that blanketed his face.

  “What, Michael? What is it?”

  “The cord, woman, that goddamned cord!” he shouted as he pushed her away from him.

  He tried to stand, but fell. “Shit!”

  And then he dragged himself with his elbows into the hall. His legs were near useless.

  Sonia leaped to her feet, and York ran to his side.

  “What is it, Doc? What are you doing?”

  With no reason to maintain his pride, Michael commanded, “Kid, grab my arm and drag me to that goddamn lamp; hurry!”

  York obeyed without question.

  Michael grimaced as his underling pulled him like a sack of dirty laundry down the hall.

  Sonia was confused. “What are you doing, Michael, I don’t understand…” and then she stopped mid-sentence. Sonia stared at the lamp. Her eyes found the cord. The cord. She knew exactly what he was doing.

  “You can’t! It’ll kill you, Michael!”

  Michael cocked his mouth to the side; his response was a tad sarcastic. “Kind of already dead, aren’t we, honey.”

  Turning to York, Michael was quite clear in his orders. “Kid, yank that cord out of the back of the lamp. Shove it into my thigh! Hold for a three-count!”

  There was no conversation, no questions. With conviction, York did what he was told.

  As he was about to shove the cord into Michael’s leg, Michael put his hand up and shouted, “Wait!”

  He motioned for Sonia to come closer. When she did, he took her by the hand and pulled her toward him until their bodies melted into one. He kissed her deeply and said, “I love you, Sonia. This’ll work, trust me.”

  “Your heart might stop,” she said through tears.

  “You’re the MD; if it does, just do your thing,” Michael said almost casually as he gently dropped her hand and pushed her away.

  Michael balled his fists, prepared himself, and nodded to York. “Threecounts. Do it!”

  Sonia covered her eyes and wanted to look away but stared through her fingers.

  There was no hesitation. York shoved the cord into Michael’s leg; Michael’s teeth smashed together and sputum emerged from both his mouth and nose. Flesh burned. His body went rigid as his eyes rolled white.

  York counted silently as told: one-and-two-and-three-and…

  The electricity ripped through Michael’s nervous system, muscle, and bone. Inside of his femoral artery, the small implanted device’s circuitry burned until destroyed.

  It was rendered inoperable.

  York dropped the cord and immediately went to Michael’s carotid artery. He felt for a moment and then put his head to Michael’s heart. He wanted to be sure.

  York pulled his hand back and high into the air; he couldn’t help it when he smiled widely. Releasing his hand from its high position above, he slapped Michael across the face, to the surprise of Sonia, who jumped a bit.

  “What are you doing?” yelled Sonia at York.

  York looked at Michael, whose eyes were still closed, and raised his hand again for another strike, but this time, as he brought it down, Michael’s hand thrust out and grabbed York by the wrist.

  Answering his wife’s question, Michael said, “I think he’s trying to take advantage of the situation.”

  Both York and Sonia smiled as she said, “I can understand.”

  Michael sat up; his nose cringed at the smell of burnt flesh, and he rubbed his thigh with some vigor. Sounding almost hurt, he replied, “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Honey, I love you more than anything, so don’t take this the wrong way, but you can be kind of hard to live with.”

  Michael stood up, uneasily testing his legs, but he found his balance. His gait was still uneven as he moved closer to his wife. Bringing her closer, he kissed her once more. She held onto him tightly and then squeezed him even tighter as she buried her face into his chest.

  “How did you know it would work?” she asked through new tears.

  “I didn’t.” Michael’s response was pithy.

  He pulled Sonia’s face upward until their eyes met. “It will take more than some thief’s bloodlust and a little bomb in my leg to take me from you. Now,” Michael’s eyes grew serious, “it’s your turn.”

  It was then that Sonia was reminded that she, too, had the same downwardcounting device in her leg.

  “Lay down, Sonia; take a breath, hold it in, and close your eyes.”

  Sonia looked scared, but she complied.

  Michael gave her hand a squeeze and then let go. He nodded to York who quickly repeated the process.

  Michael held his breath, too.

  York dropped the cord and felt for her pulse. After a moment, he nodded in the affirmative toward Michael.

  Michael released his breath in relief. He told York, “Kid, if you even so much as think of slapping her, I’ll kick your ass.”

  Sonia smiled painfully at the quip.

  Michael helped his wife to her feet. Going to one knee, he applied pressure to the spot into which York had shoved the cord. “You okay?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Sonia replied. “Let me take a look.”

  Michael pulled his hand away, and Sonia inspected the wound. “Nothing a bit of Neosporin and a couple of Tylenols won’t cure.”

  Michael smiled and then walked back into what had been his wife’s cell for nearly forty-eight hours. The History Thief was clearly dead. Across his face was not the look of a man whose life had been lost but that of a man who appeared content. Squatting to the thief’s side, Mi
chael didn’t waste any time wondering what had driven the man to madness.

  He didn’t care. That had stopped long ago.

  Picking up the vellum, Michael unrolled it; wrapped inside the vellum was the flash drive. Michael shook his head as he read the old piece of calfskin once more.

  Without looking at the audience behind him, he barked, “Time to get moving.” Rolling the vellum back into a tight tube with the flash drive still inside of it, he shoved them into his coat.

  His face turning serious, without another word, he moved quickly down the hallway. Sonia and York followed close behind.

  Shouting out to her husband, Sonia asked, “Where are we going?”

  Without as much as a backward glance, Michael answered, “You’ve always wanted to take a trip to Rome; now’s your chance.”

  Sonia and York looked at one another; both thought the same question:

  Rome?

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  AND THEN THERE WERE

  THREE LEAVING THE BOIS

  Gerald was growing tired of the cold as he waited. He stared at his watch.

  The hour had passed.

  Someone was dead.

  Who?

  The answer appeared suddenly.

  He wasn’t shocked to see the Americans; silently he had rooted for them over the frog. But he was shocked as he stood in the shadows and not two, but three people emerged from the thief’s building.

  Gerald kept his distance but trailed them as ordered. At the same time, he thought, Well, if things ain’t just gettin’ more interesting…

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  INTIMATE SECRETS

  67 RUE DU CHABROL #4

  The prostitutes were finishing up their shifts; many looked more than tired and unkempt, a few had new bruises. Michael and York ignored them, but Sonia felt slightly embarrassed. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because she was a woman with two men, in a place where that meant only one thing.

  One of the few prostitutes that remained laughed.

  Sonia tightened her collar and looked at the pavement.

  They were on Rue du Chabrol and were walking fast. Then the men stopped.

  Michael inserted his key into the brass lock of the large, wooden door.

  Quickly they climbed the stairs.

  Danielle had been watching desperately from the fourth-floor window for hours. When she had seen Michael, her heart had fluttered, followed by a long breath of relief.

  Then she saw Sonia; she didn’t know what to think, or what to do.

  Before Michael could open the door to the flat, it flung open, startling Michael and York—and Sonia.

  Sonia watched as the rather attractive young, black-haired woman leaped into Michael’s arms. She watched as the woman kissed Michael over and over again.

  Sonia’s heart sank as she looked at York; he shrugged in embarrassment.

  “I’m okay, Danielle. I’m okay,” said Michael as he peeled her lean body from his.

  “Oh, my Michele, my Michele, I was so afraid for you!” cried Danielle as she planted more kisses upon Michael’s cheeks and lips.

  Sonia had never seen another woman give so much affection and intimate attention to her husband. She was both hurt and angered at the same time, an interesting combination of emotion. Her legs felt suddenly weak.

  In a soft voice that was laced with pain, Sonia asked, “Michael?”

  Michael looked at his wife and immediately understood her hurt.

  Sonia took a step backward.

  Bu it was Danielle that spoke as she fell from Michael’s arms. “No, no, no! It’s not what you think. Please come in, Sonia. Please.” Danielle moved to the side and motioned for them to enter the safe house.

  Sonia was frozen.

  Danielle reached out and touched her gently. “Dr. Sterling—Sonia—I have wanted to meet you my entire life.” New tears filled the young woman’s eyes.

  “Michele has told me so much about you that I feel as if I know you; I have hoped that this day would come. There is so much to tell you. Please, come in.”

  Sonia looked to her husband. He was smiling.

  She thought this a bit odd.

  Uneasily she walked through the doorway; the men followed. Her eyes covered the vast interior of the home, but she hadn’t the energy to be impressed.

  Danielle, again, reached for her arm and guided her to a chair. “Please, Sonia, please sit down. I will fix you a drink.”

  Sonia wasn’t much of a drinker: the occasional glass of wine with a meal, and, when she was feeling really adventurous, a cool martini—slightly dirty.

  But she accepted the offer, feeling that she needed something to numb what had felt like the crack of a hammer on her heart. “Vodka, neat,” she stated.

  Michael was surprised and nodded to Danielle to make one for him, too.

  “Of course, Sonia,” said the smiling and clearly excited Danielle. As she walked away to make the drinks, she could hardly take her eyes from Sonia.

  Michael walked to his wife and took a knee in front of her.

  Sonia didn’t want to look at Michael, and with her eyes cast downward, she asked, “What’s going on, Michael?” She felt foolish.

  Michael placed his hand warmly atop Sonia’s; she wanted to pull away but didn’t. Michael answered, “About eighteen years ago, I had an asset here in France. She was married to the French ambassador to Russia. One day, one horrible day, she and her husband—” Michael looked over his shoulder at Danielle. She appeared saddened.

  “It’s okay, Michele; please continue. I am just happy that the time has come for Sonia to know,” said Danielle.

  Michael cleared his throat and continued, “The ambassador and his wife were attacked—an assassin was sent to murder them. The ambassador died instantly, but his wife survived for a few hours.”

  Michael paused and collected himself. The death of a friend never leaves one.

  Regaining his composure, Michael continued, “I tried to get to them as fast as I could. It was my fault. I was young, inexperienced, and impetuous. They were coming to meet me, but they were killed trying to do so. The ambassador’s wife called me as she lay dying. I found her; most of what life she had was gone. I held her in my arms; I was helpless. Before she died, she asked me for one thing.”

  Sonia understood. She looked over at Danielle. She looked at Michael.

  It was Sonia’s turn to speak. “She asked you to look after their daughter, didn’t she?”

  Michael nodded.

  Danielle left the room.

  Sonia cupped Michael’s chin, lifted his head upward, and smiled at him. She understood. Danielle wasn’t his French mistress; she was the closest thing to a child that Michael had.

  Danielle returned, carrying a photo album. She sat on the arm of the chair in which Sonia sat and opened the album to its first page.

  “Michele raised me like his daughter. He did what he could to give me back a father. He was so good to me. I’m not sure how life would have been without him.”

  Sonia took the album and slowly turned its pages. The photos told the story of Danielle’s life. Nearly every one of them had two people: Danielle and Michael.

  Birthdays, holidays, graduations, and special moments.

  The photos were chronologically ordered. Danielle as a young girl with pigtails, clinging to Michael’s leg—in her hand a fast-melting ice cream cone, on Michael’s pant leg a long smear of the treat. A few pages later was a photo of a teenage Danielle holding an awkward-looking teenage boy’s hand. Michael stood behind them, looking a bit unhappy. Sonia smiled. Each page told a story. Each page told of love.

  As Sonia continued to study the photos, tears of her own formed as she saw the love grow between the two.

  But her tears spoke of sadness, too.

  Sonia soon realized that there were no photos of a maternal figure, no female to guide a young girl into a young woman. No one to explain how to be a woman; no mother to brush her hair, to exp
lain why her body was changing; no one to hold her head when the pain of her first love struck; no one to explain the world through a woman’s eyes. As the photos progressed, Sonia watched the young girl grow from a tiny, innocent, and wide-eyed little thing to a beautiful, strong, and exquisite blossom.

  She saw the love of a daughter for a father.

  But there was no mother.

  Sonia reached up and caressed Danielle’s arm. No words were spoken between the two women.

  Each understood.

  Another page was turned, and Sonia gasped.

  Danielle gently said, “You were there for me, too, Sonia.”

  On the pages were photos of Sonia, photos of she and Michael, of their trips, their moments, of their love.

  Danielle continued, “Michele did his best to use you as a guide when raising me. He taught me in the best way that he could how to become a woman, and he used you as his example.”

  Sonia looked at her husband; she saw him in a new light.

  “Everything that I am is because of you and Michele.”

  And then it dawned on Sonia. Over the years, Michael would always talk about having a daughter; how they would raise her, things they would say to her. They had decided to wait to have children. The timing wasn’t right; their careers were too demanding. But, yet, Michael often spoke of being a father to a young girl and the challenges that it would bring. He would always ask her what she would do; she had thought this was a game between the two.

  But it had been more than that.

  As if Danielle knew what Sonia was thinking, she said, “Michele always told me what he thought you might say as a mother to her child. In a way, you raised me, too.”

  Sonia closed the album and asked, “Michael said this was a safe house. Are you in the intel business like him?”

  Danielle smiled and answered, “In a way. You see, I went to medical school; like you, I am a doctor.”

  “A doctor?”

  “Oui,” answered Danielle; a broad smile stretched across her face. “Michele raised me as you would have; you were his example of what a woman should be. Even though we had never met, you were very much like a mother to me; you were my example. Michele made sure of it. I have loved you for so long and worked very hard to be the kind of woman that you are.”