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

by Joseph Nagle

  “You did well, Jorge.”

  “How can you sit there and be so calm?” quizzed Jorge.

  Stanford sat up and placed his feet on the floor; he stretched before answering, “Because I have faith in the Doc, Jorge.”

  “Just like you had faith that I wouldn’t die when you shot me?” spat back Jorge.

  “Exactly! And look, here you sit just as healthy as you were before that dummy bullet hit your chest. It wasn’t my fault that it hit the religious pendant on your necklace. Why do you wear that trinket, anyway? You were supposed to be wearing a Kevlar vest!”

  “A vest would have been too obvious; it was a stroke of luck that I lived! I was in cardiac arrest! You could have missed, you know! What if Ms. Samantha hadn’t come back?!” shouted Jorge.

  “But she did, didn’t she? Look, Jorge,” Stanford dropped his feet to the floor and leaned in and over the desk that separated them, “Like I said: I have faith, so should you. The Doc has both the medallion and the vellum. He’s on his way to Rome. He’s closer than any of us have ever been to finding him, and when he does, you and I will have more wealth than one can comprehend. And with that wealth, Jorge, comes power. No members of the Watchmen or the Order have ever been this close, and we’ve had over four centuries of searching. For Christ’s sake, the Doc has the vellum, which has been missing since 1578! He was able to accomplish in twenty-four hours what we couldn’t do in over four hundred years!”

  Jorge exhaled a heavy breath and let his hands fall heavily to the desk. “Okay, you’ve made your point, but what if the Doc fails?”

  Stanford held up both hands sarcastically, his fingers were crossed. “Let’s hope he doesn’t; but if he does, we go back to business as usual, and he dies. They all do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  EVERYONE’S GOING

  TO ROME AIR FRANCE:

  FLIGHT 1204

  Air France Flight 1204 from Charles de Gaulle to Rome was nonstop, but that didn’t alleviate Michael’s apprehension. The vibration from the Rolls-Royce Trent 700 engines caused his fingertips to rattle against the plastic armrests; he squeezed them tightly.

  Sonia noticed Michael’s uneasiness and placed her hand atop his. “Still hate flying?”

  Michael replied with only an awkward smile. She gave his hand a bit of a squeeze as the plane lifted from the tarmac.

  York was sitting in the row behind the Michael and Sonia, but still heard the interchange. He leaned forward and shoved his head into the space between their two seats. “You should have seen him when we flew to Paris. Doc, how is it that you have no problem throwing yourself out of a fourth-story window, but yet act like a little girl every time you get on a plane?” York sat back, laughing.

  Michael tensed, and Sonia quickly changed the subject. “Michael, you said we were going to Rome to visit an old friend; who is he?”

  Closing his eyes, Michael remembered when he had first met the colonel—the head of the Vatican’s Swiss Guard—three years ago. Michael had just killed an assassin in the middle of St. Peter’s Square, and the colonel had a knife buried hilt-deep in his chest. But he had been wearing a bulletproof vest and, although the knife had been buried to its hilt, the colonel had ignored it to scream out orders to his confused and horrified men.

  The memory made Michael smile.

  Sonia saw this and asked, “What’s so funny?”

  “We are going to visit the retired head of the Swiss Guard, honey. He’s a good man.”

  “And you think he can help with all of this?”

  “Sonia.” Michael turned serious. “I know he can help—not only was he the head of the Swiss Guard, but he is a member of the Watchmen, an organization that has a sworn duty to intervene when the Order surfaces.”

  The flight attendant was a few rows away, trying in vain to push the drink cart through the narrow aisle. She loudly banged the metal corner of the cart against one of the armrests.

  Michael eyed the cart more than he eyed the pretty attendant. Instantly, his mind floated to a freshly poured glass of vodka on ice.

  Sonia muttered under her breath, “Don’t even think about it. Get some sleep, Michael.”

  Damn, thought Michael, this is going to be a long flight.

  And like a good husband should, Michael obeyed his wife, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

  From the rear of the plane, Gerald mimicked the man he was following and closed his eyes, too.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  CASTLES, COFFEE, AND

  BLOOD

  CASTLE D’CAMINI

  “That’s not human, Michael!”

  Michael snorted a laugh.

  Sonia, too. “I mean, really, Michael, he sounds like a tank stuck in the mud!”

  In the back seat of the small Fiat, York’s head was tilted backward and lay heavily on the short headrest. His mouth was as wide open as could be, and his eyes were tightly shut. He looked completely uncomfortable in the tiny car as he took up the entire back seat. But yet he slept. York was tall and muscular, two attributes that didn’t fit well with the back seat of a compact car. His knees nearly touched his chest, and his arms were splayed left and right across the backseat. Loud, prolonged snores filled the car with each inhale; the exhalations were worse.

  Michael purposely drove the car into a wide pothole; the car jerked violently. Its only effect on York led to a twitch, followed by another loud snort, before regaining his original rhythm.

  Sonia did all that she could to hold in her laugh.

  It was a humorous moment for them both.

  “You should have heard him on our last flight. You could’ve sworn he was snoring out the African bull elephant mating call.”

  “Should I wake him?” asked Sonia.

  “Good luck. On that flight to Paris, I put an elbow in his ribs about a dozen times, to no effect.”

  “Please tell me we don’t have far to go, Michael.”

  Michael smiled. “We’re almost there—just a few more miles.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  About five minutes later, Michael stopped the car and cut off the engine. Sonia couldn’t believe her eyes. Michael reached back over the seat, giving York a playful slap on his left cheek. “Come on, kid, get up. We’re here.”

  York woke, rubbed the tiredness from his eyes, and then leaned in between the two of them. “Good God! That’s the colonel’s house?”

  “Yep. That’s his place,” responded Michael.

  “I should’ve joined the Swiss Guard! They obviously pay better.”

  “Gotta be Catholic, single, and Swiss, kid.”

  Michael and Sonia stepped out the car; she put one hand on the curve of her hip; with her other hand, she removed the dark sunglasses that she was wearing, letting them rest on the top of her head. Her eyes moved slowly left and right, taking in the entire scene.

  York climbed awkwardly out from the backseat and stretched his arms wide.

  The grounds were lush and expansive. Sonia wasn’t sure that she had seen so many shades of intermingling green before. Vast peach and plum orchards straddled the trio. Intermingled between havens of truffles and mushrooms were small groves of olive trees and long, finely kept rows of greenery that demarcated the home’s personal vineyard.

  More impressive than the local flora was the home, which caused all of their jaws to drop. Crowning the rolling and diverse landscape was a very large and equally fortified castle; splitting the castle was a large, thick wooden door, which creaked slowly open.

  The silhouette of a tall, capable-looking man broke through the newly opened space. His skin was olive-toned and his face creased. Clearly a man in the second half of his life, he, nonetheless, bore a barreled chest, thickly muscled arms, and a lean waist. His face told of a seriousness that wasn’t to be questioned and was topped by neatly groomed, jet-black hair. The opposite of patrician, he stood as impressive and imposing as a gladiator.

  He eyed the three of them carefully. There was no smile, no hello,
and no welcoming gesture. Conversely, there was no frown or threatening demeanor either.

  He just stood and calculated the scene.

  Michael put his hand out to his side, telling both York and Sonia to stay. He walked toward the man.

  Face to face, Michael nodded and spoke first. “Colonel, it’s been awhile.”

  The colonel’s voice was deep and as serious in tone as his demeanor was in appearance. “Yes, Dr. Sterling, it has—I’ve been expecting you, however.”

  “Why am I not surprised, Colonel?”

  The colonel offered what little emotion he could. The slight smile in response to Michael’s question wasn’t contrived, but a lifetime of hard-forged, military discipline and unwavering resoluteness robs a man of the need to share in wasted humor.

  Colonel Camini spoke louder so that York and Sonia could hear. “Follow me. All of you.”

  His command was simple, but his voice resonated thoroughly a need to comply without question. All three of them quickly followed the colonel into his castle.

  The inside of the castle was vast and more impressive than its grounds. York’s head spun around nearly three hundred and sixty degrees and then back again as he worked to take it all in. Sonia couldn’t help but notice the grand nature of its interior. Marble statues, tapestries, paintings, fifteenth-and sixteenth-century gilded furniture abounded. They moved quickly past a collection of nineteenth-century Italian majolica ceramics. The home gave her the same oppressive feeling of awe as any museum.

  As if sensing their bewilderment and questions, the colonel spoke as they continued to move. “This castle was built in 1485; it took nearly fifteen years to construct. The architect was Francisco di Giorgio Martini.”

  His long legs moved fast as he spoke. He led them down a long arched hallway lined with different weapons that were medieval in appearance. There were lances, halberds, swords, and even a full suit of armor for a man, plus one for a horse.

  They continued to move and soon entered a dark and depressing hall. Everything in it was gothic and overbearing. The word gothic was pejorative and implied an overt rudeness and barbaric nature; nothing about this hall was implied: it was explicit. Everything rose vertically and with a sharp harshness. Trapezoids intersected with horizontal lines, which split vertical ones. The ribbed masonry of all four walls was crammed together almost painfully and capped by countless carved, pointed arches that circled the highest points of the room’s walls.

  Walking through it, Sonia was glad to be out of the room; it gave her chills. York no longer seemed to care about the art or architecture; he was keeping an intense eye on their host.

  Into the next room, they all followed. All three of them were glad that in this room the colonel stopped. The coffered ceiling was high and let in plenty of warm sunlight. In the room’s center stood a sixteenth-century wooden table. Four matching hand-carved chairs encircled it.

  The colonel pointed, and all obliged and moved to sit.

  Except for Sonia.

  The colonel had pulled out a chair and gestured gentlemanly for her to take a seat. Sonia felt the cheeks of her face flush a bit; as she reached for the chair, the colonel put his hand on her shoulder, and with surprising warmth through his toughened gaze, he said, “I am glad that we are able to have finally met. Your husband has told me much about you.” What he did next startled her; he kissed both of her cheeks.

  But they weren’t the unassuming kisses of Italian culture. They had tenderness and transmitted a truth to his last statement. He was glad to have met the wife of Dr. Michael Sterling.

  “The wound on your neck—does it bring you pain?” The colonel had noticed the large, purplish bruising on Sonia’s neck where the thief had inserted his knife.

  Sonia reached up to touch it, having nearly forgotten that the side effect of the thief’s bluffs was still there. “I’m fine, but thank you.”

  “Please, Mrs. Sterling, sit.” The colonel offered her the chair once more.

  “Sonia—please call me Sonia.”

  The colonel nodded with sincerity.

  Sonia remarked, “You have a beautiful home.” Or, do I call it a castle, she wondered. “It must have a wonderful history.”

  In the middle of the table sat a silver coffee serving set that looked as old as the home. Near it was a relish tray that was filled with whole olives drizzled with oil, roughly torn bread, and cashews. The colonel picked up the coffee server and asked, “Mrs. Sterling—pardon me—Sonia, may I offer you some coffee?”

  “Please.” Sonia smiled in return.

  Pushing the relish tray closer, the colonel said, “Please, help yourself,” and then answered her question.

  His voice lowered one octave deeper, “This castle has been the bitter dispute between two opposing families since the moment its cornerstone was laid. I just happen to be on the right side of the argument for the time being. Eleven years after it was built, in 1496, Pope Alessandro VI confiscated the home. At the end of his papacy, the castle was recovered, and it had been held by my family for nearly two hundred years.”

  York was doing the math in his head.

  Sonia patiently waited.

  The colonel paused and poured himself a cup of coffee. When finished, he pushed the silver server toward York, who shook his head no. Instead, Michael picked it up and helped himself to a cup and then sat comfortably backward as he listened, having learned long ago that pleasantries come before business in Italy.

  Sonia took a deep sip of the coffee and relished the rich flavor of the Italian roast. Cupping the coffee between her small hands and enjoying its warmth, she asked, “Colonel, I presume the castle was lost again?”

  “The rival family I speak of had little power during that period, but was fortunate to find one of their members skillfully placed on the papal throne in the late seventeenth century—he was anointed Innocent XI. Not long afterward, the new pope’s nephew was named Holy Roman Emperor; he then returned the home to my family. Since that point, the home has there remained.”

  Sonia furrowed her brow; York picked up on it, too, and it was he who asked the question, albeit it came out in a condescending fashion: “I thought you said that this castle has been fought over by two families! But if the nephew of the pope was in your family, and the pope was from the other family, how is that possible—Colonel?”

  Sonia shot York a glare.

  Michael wanted to slap the back of his head.

  The colonel wasn’t fazed and actually showed a bit of palpable humor. He smiled slightly and nodded to Michael as if to allow him to give the answer.

  Michael willingly obliged and said, “He never said that the two families were unrelated, kid.” But he was really saying mind your fucking manners, you little shit!

  “Let me guess, Dr. Sterling,” interjected the colonel, “this must be the Staff Sergeant York you’ve told me all about?”

  The colonel stood and extended his hand over the table to the young Green Beret. “It is my pleasure to finally meet you.”

  York knew his mistake the moment he grasped hands with the colonel. The colonel’s grip was like iron. His hand was diminutive in the colonel’s, whose hand was coarse from years of labor and thick from overuse; his grip was strong and told of real and unquestionable strength. The colonel held the young soldier’s hand firmly, a bit longer and harder than would be considered socially acceptable.

  It hurt a bit, but York bit the inside of his cheek and took it the way a Green Beret was trained; he didn’t want to show how much it pained him. Finally letting go, having made his point, the colonel picked up the coffee server and poured a fresh cup. Pushing it over to York, he insisted, “Please, everyone who comes to my home must try my coffee. I picked and roasted the beans myself. I would be offended if you didn’t at least try it.”

  All were quiet; York was uneasy. The colonel was claiming the dominant role.

  York acquiesced.

  If he were a canine, his long, furry tail would be thrust so fa
r between his legs his testes wouldn’t be visible. Not being a dog, York displayed the human’s version of submission. He picked up the small porcelain cup and sipped as he was asked to do—even though he hated coffee.

  Setting his cup down, Michael leaned forward. “You said you were expecting me, Colonel: why?” It was time for business.

  “Dr. Sterling, when Notre Dame was destroyed, I thought of only one thing.”

  “The Crown of Thorns,” interrupted York.

  The colonel didn’t mind his impetuous nature and nodded in the affirmative. “I had my suspicions, Staff Sergeant, but it was when the shroud disappeared that I knew.”

  “What did you know, Colonel?” inquired Michael, wanting to hear it from a member of the Watchmen.

  “That the Order was involved, of course. There is no other possibility. They have wanted the crown and the shroud for centuries; that much the Watchmen have known. We have worked to keep them from them, but not well enough, I’m afraid. I made some quiet inquiries with my colleagues and learned what I could, which wasn’t much. But then I saw that act of lunacy you pulled with the senator—”

  “You saw that?”

  “Dr. Sterling, the entire world saw it. You have become some sort of folk hero, by the way. The Internet is ablaze with that grainy video. Everyone wants to know who in the hell you are! Most of the world has taken an anti-America stance in recent years; all of Europe is in love with you. Some sort of modern, apolitical Robin Hood you’ve become.”

  “How did you know it was me then?” asked Michael, feeling his face blush slightly.

  Sonia rolled her eyes. She knew her husband; Michael loved the newfound attention.

  The colonel replied almost casually, “You are the only one I know crazed enough to drag a man by his hair out of a fourth-floor window, and when I saw that it was Senator Faust that you had by the scalp, I did the math. I’ve had my suspicions about the senator for some time. The deaths of Senator Door and France’s president, along with the theft of the crown and the shroud, could be no coincidence and he was in Paris for a reason. The Order has made their move, and Senator Faust is in their grips. He is their pawn.”