The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (25 page)

He silently enjoyed the victory, even if it was a small one.

He yanked the cell phone out of the glove box, thanked the predictability of people, and typed in a simple text message.

Within moments, a message was returned. The response was short and to the point:
15 minutes. You know where.

Michael pressed down on the accelerator.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

DO YOU SEE ME?
ROUTE 267

R
oute 267 wasn’t empty, but the traffic flowed unimpeded. Michael was anxious, but careful to not drive too fast. He settled the minivan in behind an eighteen-wheeler and was content to match the trucker’s speed.

Nearly ten minutes had passed, as well as a couple of toll stations. Fortunately, he had stolen a minivan replete with an electronic toll pass. Through each station, a digital record marked the time and date. It wouldn’t take the Company long to track him.

He figured he had anywhere from five minutes to an hour’s head start: it depended on just how much the owner of the stolen van loved to run.

Once it was reported stolen, the report would be uploaded into the Fairfax County police database. The CIA would see the report faster than any detective assigned to the case. They would work feverishly to find and to reverse-calculate the movement of any stolen vehicle. So long as it was equipped with any form of electronic tracking—including cell-phone usage, navigation systems, On-Star systems, and toll passes—the vehicle could be tracked and found. Michael had used two of the four.

It was a necessary risk.

Soon, a CIA analyst would find that a 2007 Silver Honda minivan had been stolen from Pimmit Bend Park, driven down Route 267, and, most telling, its driver had sent and received a text message.

The analyst would tap into the Department of Transportation’s traffic monitoring systems and easily find the digital video of the minivan passing through the tollbooths; the analyst would enhance the video footage until he or she could more clearly see the driver’s face.

Through each toll, Michael had ensured that he lowered his head so that the video wouldn’t show his face. Before merging with the traffic on Route 267, Michael had flipped down the sun visors to help obstruct the camera’s view.

It didn’t matter.

The analyst at Langley would use a face recognition program, which would survey the unique angles of Michael’s face. It would take a few minutes longer than a simple visual confirmation, but nonetheless, the program would spit out a positive match of his face.

Confirmation wouldn’t be necessary, but the analyst would be efficient. They all were. They would find Michael. The analyst would run a trace of all cell phone activity and cross-reference it with all stolen car reports from the moment Michael had escaped. There would be hundreds, perhaps thousands, of cell phone calls and text messages. But only two of them would be at the precise spot where Michael had stolen the van. The analyst would read them and know that he was on his way to meet someone, and it wouldn’t be difficult for the analyst to find out where.

Michael was leaving a trail as wide as a canyon.

He didn’t have a choice.

Michael lowered his face and passed through the last toll before getting off of the road. Taking exit number 12, Michael drove with spirit down Reston Parkway. He took a right onto US Geological Survey Drive. To his left, he saw a street—Sanibel Drive—and he swerved onto it. The homes on Sanibel were less than modest, a typical side effect to living within shouting distance of an airport. He panned left and right and saw what he needed: an empty driveway.

Turning quickly into the driveway, Michael slammed on the brakes and roughly shifted the minivan into park. He stared at the closed curtains of the home. They were discolored and hung askew. Half-expecting them to be pulled back at any moment, along with a set of eyes peering through, he let out a breath when they remained still. He jumped out of the minivan, landing heavily onto the balls of his feet. A sharp pain ran up and then back down the front of his quadriceps. He grunted at it and at his lack of grace. Swearing at no one in particular, he reached down and shoved his thumb into the femoris branch of his femoral nerve. It was an old trick to mute leg pain: the deeper he pushed, the less sharp the pain was in his leg. Standing upright, he let out a shallow breath and quickly scanned the neighborhood for any signs of danger. Seeing none, he took out the stolen cell phone and dialed the number to the Fairfax County automated weather line. A sultry female voice echoed the day’s temperature, including the high and low, relative humidity, and chance for precipitation. He tossed the phone onto the driver’s seat; the digital loop repeated.

Michael ran away from the minivan and hoped that its owner was still out on her run. He needed a few more minutes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

EVERYONE GETS WHAT
THEY WANT
PIAZZA SAN CARLO
TORINO, ITALY

C
harney ran his fingers over the coarse stone pedestal of the statue’s base. It was rougher than he had imagined, but he enjoyed the sensation the porous rock created along his fingertips. He gazed upward at the statue of the large bronze horse and rider that was mounted atop the stone: a victorious Duke Edmondo Filiberto with his sword held high and crying out to the victory of the battle of Saint Quentin.

But he wasn’t there to admire the architecture and vision of Di Castellamonte, the piazza’s creator. He was there to deliver the shroud.

The piazza was one hundred and sixty-eight meters long and seventy-six wide, affording him the ability to see his flanks, to be protected from all sides. There would be no surprises by the American; he would see him well in advance of his arrival.

And just as he had anticipated, there he was.

The American was walking toward him but was still more than one hundred meters from his position. He was easily recognizable.

Too obvious,
Charney thought.
Or, perhaps he wasn’t concerned.

Charney put his hand in his pocket and squeezed the ancient grenade. It was his last one. He doubted that he would need it, but caution was critical to survival. He put his thumb through the circular eyelet of the grenade’s safety pin.

In his free hand, he held a cigarette. He took one last drag and then dropped it nonchalantly to his feet. The man closed the distance just as Charney finished rubbing out with the ball of his foot the lit end of the cigarette on the centuries-old travertine.

Over Charney’s shoulder was draped the bag that held the Shroud of Turin.

In the distance, the sounds of sirens could be heard. The crowds on the piazza were thinner by night, and most were huddled at the small number of coffee shops and bars that bordered the piazza.

The stout American now stood directly in front of Charney. He gruffly commanded, “Let’s walk.”

The wail of another siren caught their attention as the unseen Fiat screamed by; Charney’s contact dryly stated, “I suppose that’s your doing.” He didn’t wait for a response, and Charney didn’t offer one; instead, he eyed the dark bag hanging over Charney’s shoulder. “Is that it?”

Charney ignored both the comment and the question; he replied only by saying, “I would like some espresso, shall we?”

Charney pointed toward an empty table in the corner of one of the outdoor cafés. The man nodded and both men walked toward it. Once seated, the American repeated his question. “Is that it?”

A young barista prevented Charney from answering; both men asked for espressos. She smiled at the American indifferently, but seemed to offer Charney a bit more attention.

Charney noticed her eyes; they were deep and catching. He thought he saw her cheeks flush a bit as she turned to fill their order. Charney stared a bit too long as she walked away.

This isn’t the time,
he thought.

Looking at the man sitting across from him, Charney finally answered his question. “Yes, this is it.” And then he pushed it across the table.

Without hesitation, the man reached into a small, flat bag that he had draped across his own body. He pulled out a small laptop and affixed a cord to one of its USB ports. In a few short moments, the end of the cord lit up slightly. It was an infrared ocular device, reading the age of the shroud’s fibers.

He punched a few commands into the laptop and then waited for the analysis to complete. Charney heard a small tone and saw a slight smile form on the man’s pursed lips.

“It would seem that it dates to the time expected.”

“Which is?”

“Don’t know; I was told that as long as this little light turns green, I am to not kill you.”

The man had been too preoccupied to notice that under the table Charney had removed the grenade from his pocket and had it firmly grasped in his hand. In Charney’s other hand was the safety. He gently placed it on the table.

Gerald was not confused and remained silent; he easily recognized the pin belonged to a grenade.

Charney told him anyway. “It is the safety to the grenade I am holding in my hand. How the rest of this conversation transpires will be up to you.”

The American shifted slightly in his seat, but showed no outward fear. He thought of his options and said, “I suppose a bit of
quid pro quo
is only fair; the last time we met, I put my gun in your face. But there is nothing to worry about; our trust in you has grown. Yours in us should have, too.”

“And what of my money?” asked Charney. “Has it been transferred?”

The man calculated the situation, and his smile grew. “For what it is worth, I really admire your work. I am Gerald, by the way. I can see that we have had some of the same training. I was with the 5th Special Forces Group—you?”

“French Foreign Legion.”

“Marche ou créve,” responded Gerald. It was the Legion’s motto: March or die.

Charney was surprised and replied in kind with the motto of the Special Forces: “De Opresso Liber.”

Gerald nodded and then reached into the inside of his suit coat.

Charney’s posture became more erect; his hand squeezed the grenade harder. Gerald held up his other hand and said, “Relax, just take it easy. I am reaching for my phone. You asked about your money; you would like to see that it has been transferred, right?”

Charney offered a slight nod for the man to continue.

The compact American pulled out a small, keyless cell phone and turned it on. It appeared quite diminutive as he cradled it in his thick hands. He tapped the screen a few times and then turned the device so that Charney could see it. It showed a wire transfer had been made to his bank.

Another five million.

“When we have concluded, I will give you another code word to finalize the transfer. It will be activated within the hour; once I have final confirmation that this is the Shroud of Turin. Now, if you would please. The girl is returning with our coffee. I don’t think it would be wise if she were to see you holding a grenade under the table.”

Charney smoothly replaced the safety into the grenade and then nonchalantly tossed it to the American, whose anxious hands grabbed it from the air. Charney could hear the man’s rate of breathing rise a bit.

A few short moments passed, and the man’s look of fear turned into one of question. “It’s lighter than I thought.”

“It’s empty…Gerald. You Americans seem to appreciate humor in dark situations,” replied Charney.

With this quip, Gerald let out a sigh of relief and a short laugh. He responded, “I like you, monsieur, I really do. May I?” he gestured toward his pocket with the empty grenade.

“Of course,” replied Charney. “A keepsake. Another thing you Americans enjoy.”

At that moment the barista placed two espressos in front of the men. She smiled at Charney, but before walking away, she teasingly bit her lip.

He felt a slight flash of arousal.

Business first.

“She likes you,” remarked Gerald.

Picking up the small porcelain cup, Charney downed its contents, but his eyes remained firmly latched upon the departing barista. Ignoring Gerald’s observation, he stood to leave.

“The code word, Gerald, if you please.”

“Sebastian,” replied the American without hesitation.

As he turned to leave, Gerald reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, “One more thing,” he said under his breath, “as we speak, a man that we are tracking is somewhere over the Atlantic. He’s flying by commercial airline; his destination is Lisbon—in Portugal.”

Charney pulled his wrist from the man’s grasp and asked, “Why do I care?” He started to walk away.

Gerald’s response froze Charney in his tracks. “We can give you twenty million reasons to care.”

Charney stood quiet for a moment, his back to the American. Turning, he walked back to the table and asked, “Twenty million? What is this man’s objective in Portugal?”

“He’s trying to find something; we don’t know what. That’s what we need you to find out. Whatever it is that has led him to Portugal is what we want you to steal. I want you to find him, follow him, and when he locates it—get it from him.”