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

by Joseph Nagle

  Below, the debris from the destroyed plane rained downward, tearing through the trees. Men—al-Qaeda forces belonging to Abu Mohammed Ibrahim—scattered amid shouts and screams and in all directions. Ibrahim stood stoic as chunks of shrapnel and disemboweled plane slammed into the ground and through the trees around him.

  One of his soldiers, his captain, who was not five feet from him, took a large, flaming piece into his chest and fell to his knees, dead before his body hit the ground.

  Ibrahim didn’t flinch. It would be Allah’s will.

  When the last piece of the Antonov had fallen, Ibrahim shouted his orders. “Secure the pallets; find those pilots. Kill them when you do.”

  He pointed to one of his men. “You—you’re now my captain. Make sure my orders are followed!”

  Ibrahim stepped out into the sunlight and watched his men race toward the billowing parachutes marking the location of the cargo. He narrowed his eyes as he watched. He salivated silently at the power the cargo would bring him, and the death he could return in Allah’s name.

  At Langley, Michael was tense as he watched the Antonov disintegrate. But the mission wasn’t over. “Kid, find that cargo.”

  York scanned the ground for it, and Garrido jumped onto the computer next to him. “I’m calculating the path of that cargo, Staff Sergeant.” A few moments ticked by as Jorge calculated the rate of descent, the path of the plane, its speed, and the altitude at which the cargo was dropped. It wasn’t rocket science; it was physics. Finding their location was not difficult.

  “There, narrow in on the grid half a click to the right of where you are now.”

  York did.

  Both men smiled.

  On-screen, the room watched as two-dozen al-Qaeda members encircled the two pallets. They were quickly undoing the harnesses; a large six-wheeled truck pulled up next to them. The men began to offload the centrifuges and other bomb-making components.

  In the TOC, Michael issued his last order. “Lock in on those pallets; use all fourteen Hellfires. The only thing I want to see is a deep, charred hole in the ground. Fire when ready.”

  The TOC obeyed and pressed one lone key.

  All fourteen missiles released from the Reaper.

  Mohamed Abu Ibrahim froze in place.

  The sounds of the valley weren’t right.

  A slight whistle was in the air.

  It grew louder.

  Ibrahim’s eyes shook as he saw an array of missiles fast approaching; in his mind, one last thought raced:

  Why, Allah, Why?!

  EPILOGUE

  THE DAY AFTER

  Charles de Gaulle was filled with travelers. One couldn’t turn around without bumping into someone. To make the overcrowded airport even more uncomfortable, the heat and humidity from the day was trapped inside. Men and women alike had uncomfortable drizzles of sweat running down their fronts, backs, and the sides of their faces.

  The old man stood in the security line; his traveling companion was next to him.

  When it was their turn, an airport security officer asked, “Have you anything to declare?”

  The old man shook his head.

  “What’s in the bags?”

  His traveling companion replied, “Just a blanket and a cheap piece of art; some personal effects, too.”

  “Just a blanket?”

  The deep voice came from behind the men. As they both turned, they were shocked to see half a dozen pistols pointed at them. Among the armed police stood the head of the Vatican Swiss Guard. He was flanked by a few of his men.

  “Oh, dear,” said the old man.

  The baritone voice belonged to the head detective of the French National Police. He stepped forward and took both bags, setting them on a nearby table. When he opened them, he smiled.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pair of blue latex gloves. Slowly he pulled out the old man’s “blanket” and unrolled it on the table.

  A collective gasp from the numerous bystanders cascaded throughout the airport.

  The Shroud of Turin.

  Next, he gently removed the “cheap piece of art.”

  The Crown of Thorns.

  The gasping grew louder; a few of the more religious made the sign of the cross.

  The head detective turned and faced the old man and his companion. “Gentlemen, it would seem that we have a bit of a problem.”

  As they were being cuffed, the head of the Vatican Swiss Guard watched. The old man—the Primitus—eyed him curiously and pursed his lips before saying, “I’ll be back, Hector.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Hector replied. “And when you do, I will be waiting… Father.”

  THE RETURN OF THE KING

  Sonia curled up next to Michael on the sofa in their home office. A few rooms away, Company-contracted workmen hammered, sawed, and sanded their house back to its original condition.

  Michael moved stiffly as he adjusted himself under her body.

  “Hurting a bit?” Sonia asked.

  “A little,” Michael replied as he stroked her long, black hair. “You?”

  “I’m feeling fine. My neck is a bit sore, but the rest of me is okay.”

  Together, they watched as the news anchor reported what they both already knew.

  The silver-haired journalist spoke smoothly. “An antiquities dealer, who is considered one of the world’s foremost private art collectors, was arrested today along with his traveling companion as they tried to clear customs in France. A rare joint task force, which included certain elements of the Vatican’s Swiss Guard and the French National Police, found the stolen Crown of Thorns and the Shroud of Turin in the two men’s carry-on baggage. It is not yet clear how, or if, the two men are connected to the devastation that occurred at Notre Dame.”

  Sonia raised her eyebrows and looked up at Michael.

  The journalist continued, “The Vatican issued a statement that a joint effort between the Swiss Guard and the French National Police led to the discovery. A contingent of the Swiss Guard is in France, readying to escort the shroud and the crown back to Rome until Notre Dame can be rebuilt and further security efforts can be established at the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist in Turin, Italy—the traditional home of the shroud.”

  “I’ll say it was a joint effort.” Michael sipped on his chilled glass of Chardonnay—Yellow Tail—and continued to watch.

  “You guys never get the glory, do you?” asked Sonia.

  “That’s not why we’re in this business,” Michael returned. Reaching down, he stroked her well-toned arm. “All of our successes are locked away in a file somewhere.”

  “In another stunning announcement from the Vatican,” the journalist reported, “a short statement was released, confirming that bones exhumed from an unmarked grave in the Vatican’s private cemetery belonged to those of King Sebastian the First of Portugal. Lesser known in history, a young King Sebastian went missing in 1578 during a fierce battle in the Alcacer Qebir region of North Africa. It is still unclear how the king’s body arrived at the Vatican. Arrangements are being made for the return of the king to his Portugal home.”

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  “I WANT IN”

  Michael and Sonia drove up the lengthy drive from the south entrance of the CIA’s grounds. Sonia watched as the emerald leaves swayed in the cool morning breeze.

  A ubiquitous fog rose lazily from the Virginia grasses, bouncing slowly over the landscape.

  She caught a chill and wrapped her arms tighter around her torso.

  It had been over two weeks since she had been kidnapped, over two weeks since she had last stepped into the hospital as a doctor.

  Her next thought surprised her: she didn’t miss it.

  Michael brought the car to a stop and parked next to a large red truck.

  York jumped out of its cab.

  “Morning, sir,” said York politely. His head was newly shaved, and he looked rested.

  Sonia ran toward him and gave him a big hug. �
�Jonathon! How’ve you been; how are you healing?”

  “Fine, and fine, ma’am.”

  Sonia scowled slightly, “Now, you know better than that, and after all that we’ve been through—it’s Sonia! Don’t ever call me ma’am again!”

  York smiled as she gave him a playful shove.

  “You look well, Jonathon,” Sonia remarked.

  “A couple weeks of good sleep,” Jonathon replied as he patted his stomach, “and some home-cooked meals do wonders.”

  “How is Elizabeth?” Sonia asked.

  “She’s fine.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her.”

  Michael joined in. “Have you made your decision?”

  York’s face washed over with a new, more serious look.

  He nodded in the affirmative.

  “Decision—what decision?” Sonia asked. She was confused.

  There were no words.

  Michael put his fingers between his lips and blew a high-pitched whistle.

  Within moments, a white, windowless van sped through the parking lot and came to a screeching halt next to them.

  Four very large men jumped out; two grabbed York by his arms. A startled Sonia froze; York shot an angry glare at Michael and yelled out, “So, this is how it’s going to be?!”

  “Welcome to your first day of training, kid,” Michael answered.

  A third man yanked a black hood over his head, and then the three men threw York into the van while the fourth held open its door.

  The van’s door was slammed shut; inside York could be heard shouting and kicking away.

  The fourth man—the driver—turned to Michael and a shocked Sonia. “Sir, ready on your orders.”

  But Sonia jumped in between the two and yelled, “What the hell’s going on, Michael?!”

  “The kid’s coming to work for me.”

  York had joined the CIA; he was on his way to the Farm for his first day of training.

  Sonia glared at Michael, but it was through an odd smile.

  Michael didn’t understand at first.

  But soon, it became clear.

  “No!” he shouted at her. “Hell, no!”

  But on she continued to stare.

  “Damn it, Sonia; you can’t do this! What about your career, the hospital? You can’t!”

  “I’m as good as anyone—you know it, Michael; besides, I think you could use a doctor on your team.” Sonia held her arms straight out to the sides and said, “I want in.”

  Michael rubbed his eyes; he knew better than to argue with her.

  Son of a bitch!

  Snapping his fingers, he pointed reluctantly at his wife.

  The two men who had grabbed York each took one of Sonia’s outstretched arms. Before they could put the black bag over her head, Michael waved for them to wait. He pulled her closer and gave her a deep kiss.

  “Good luck. I hope you can hold your breath.”

  Sonia’s nervous smile disappeared; returning in its place was one of fear. “Hold my breath! For what?! Why do I have to hold my breath?! Michael!

  Michael?!”

  Michael didn’t answer.

  He couldn’t.

  Outlining any part of the Farm’s training was prohibited. The information was classified.

  “I love you,” Michael said.

  Without warning, her world went dark.

  Michael watched as the white van sped away with the CIA’s two newest recruits.

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  President Elizabeth Beckett Door sat behind the Resolute.

  It had been a busy first month in office. The few moments between her last meeting and the next were well used.

  Out of the three oversized, south-facing windows she stared.

  Her tranquility was quickly ended, as she knew it would be, but she smiled: this was a meeting that she had eagerly awaited.

  The northeast door of the Oval Office opened, and President Door watched, her smile still broad, as Dr. Michael Sterling walked into the room.

  Quickly standing, she walked around the Resolute and directly toward Michael.

  “Mrs. President.” Michael nodded politely.

  She maternally rested both of her hands on Michael’s arms. “In this office, please call me Beth. You deserve it, Dr. Sterling.”

  With an awkward smile, Michael nodded and replied, “Only if you call me Michael.”

  The president motioned to one of the two couches in the office. “Please, Michael, have a seat. Tell me—how’s the other Dr. Sterling doing?”

  “She’s doing fine.”

  “Fine? I’d say she’s doing better than fine. From what I hear, she’s tearing up new roads on the Farm—best recruit since, well, since you. I hear Mr. York is doing quite well, too. The Special Activities Division has him in their scopes.”

  If Michael were able to blush, he would have. A sense of pride washed over him, but he remained stoic in front of the president.

  As if reading Michael’s mind, President Door remarked, “Normally a sitting president wouldn’t keep tabs on a CIA students, but I would say that my relationship with the three of you is anything but normal. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Ma’am—” Michael saw the president scowl. “Beth, I would agree.”

  “I have a personal attachment to you and your wife; to Jonathon as well. I can’t thank all of you enough; I owe you my life. The people of this country can’t thank you enough, too—all of you. I’ve placed a commendation in your personnel file, in York and your wife’s, too. Hell of a way to start their careers with the CIA.”

  “It is.”

  “Because of all of your actions, the proper infrastructure and development for new mining operations is already underway in Afghanistan and, rightfully, belongs to the Afghani people. I’ve been briefed that the first extraction of lithium has already taken place. Even better, there has been a dramatic reduction in opium trafficking and al-Qaeda activity. The new industry has already led to Afghani communities developing new homes, schools, roadways, medical facilities, and other support functions.”

  “That’s certainly good news.”

  “Plans have been put in place to assist the Afghani government in the careful mining of those minerals and an orderly transition of its responsibility.”

  President Door stopped speaking for a moment as she realized that Michael wasn’t hearing anything new. “I guess I shouldn’t have to tell you that, Michael; the information comes from your people.”

  Michael nodded politely.

  “Those deposits will go a long way toward helping the Afghani people build something tangible and long-term. The economic development will bring much-needed stability to a country and to a region that has known mostly war and conflict for generations. A new industry gives the men and the youth of the country an alternative to picking up arms. You’ve accomplished a great thing, Michael.”

  The president stood.

  Michael did too.

  As the president held her hand out, Michael grasped it. “As long as I’m sitting behind that desk, you will have an ally in the White House.”

  Michael replied simply, “Thank you.”

  “Michael, you may have heard that the current director of the CIA has expressed his interest in heading up the Pentagon. I’m inclined to grant him his wishes. That would mean I would need a new director.”

  Michael’s eyes met the president’s. “Mrs. President,” Michael said, purposely taking on a more formal demeanor. It was time for business. “I appreciate your vote of confidence in me, but…” Michael paused.

  President Door finished his sentence: “You’d prefer to be back in the field, is that it?”

  Michael handed her a thin folder that he had brought with him. “That’s the outline, vision, mission statement, and budgetary request for a new division that I’m recommending be put together. It would answer only to the president. In that folder is also my formal letter of resignation as deputy director of
the National Clandestine Services.”

  The president opened the folder and studied its contents. Closing it, “It’s a small division, Dr. Sterling.” Her reply, too, had taken on a more formal nature.

  “It needs to be,” Michael stated.

  “What does OST stand for?”

  “The Order Surveillance Team.”

  The president closed the folder. “Mind if I keep this?”

  “That one’s yours, Mrs. President.”

  “Dr. Sterling, you have your division.”

  SOMETIME LATER

  OFFICE OF DR. MICHAEL STERLING, SENIOR

  PROFESSOR, DENVER UNIVERSITY

  “Proof? They are one and the same?”

  “One and the same, Dad.”

  Dr. Michael Sterling, Senior, fell into his seat.

  Michael watched his father’s face turn an interesting shade of white. His normally sideways smile was a bit crooked; this happened only when his father contemplated something that seemed just outside of his comprehension.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  Michael’s father didn’t answer.

  “Dad?!”

  The elder Sterling startled at the rise in his son’s voice. “You saw this in the Vatican’s Secret Archives? How did you even get in? Wait, I don’t want to know, do I?”

  Michael shook his head no.

  “And it was in demotic?”

  Michael nodded his head yes.

  “Demotic can be difficult to translate, Michael; are you sure you didn’t make a mistake?”

  “Dad, you taught demotic to me, remember?”

  Michael’s father ignored the question. “I can’t believe it. They’re one and the same; I’ve always suspected as much. Quite a bit points to that fact: the Coffin Texts, the Pyramidal Texts, the Book of the Dead, a number of apocrypha, and too many hieroglyphs to count. Hell, son, even the Bible outlines a clear picture, but there’s never been any definitive proof. It’s always labeled as conjecture or as allegory!”

  “The proof is there, Dad,” replied Michael.

  “But no one will ever see it! Those silly-costumed men over there are nothing more than thieves of history! The arrogance of them! How dare they keep this from the world! How dare they continue to lie to their flock?!”