The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (59 page)

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; the 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

T
he 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.

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

C
harney 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

M
ichael 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.

Both 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.