The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (31 page)

His killings were no longer amateurish; after he had found the other two boys, his taste for killing didn’t end. He had long ago graduated to be among the best.

Slipping the needle into the plastic tubing, he depressed the plunger and watched as the fast-acting drug mixed in with the saline.

As if he had been jolted by electricity, CPT Scott’s eyes opened wildly, and he sprang into a seated position.

He was confused; he didn’t know where he was. He saw the small, surprised Indian man. A hypodermic needle was in his hand.

Out of instinct, perhaps, but mostly fear, CPT Scott’s right arm shot out and clamped the man by the throat. But the drug was already taking effect.

The Indian man was shocked. This shouldn’t have happened.

CPT Scott toppled over and onto the floor, releasing the Indian man. A metal tray near his bed fell loudly next to him.

In the other room, SSG York sprang to his feet as the crashing noise jolted him from his slumber.

As he ran to the infirmary, he nearly crashed into the doctor’s assistant in the hallway. The small Indian pushed past York and blurted out in broken English, “I get doctor! You—go help friend!”

York didn’t notice that he still held the syringe of pentobarbital in his hand.

York ran into the room; CPT Scott was lying on his face in an awkward position. He rolled him over and was surprised at how peaceful he looked.

Feeling for a pulse, there was none.

CPT Scott was dead.

York looked around the room, confused. He saw the glass vial on the counter; he saw an open drawer. Clambering to his feet, he ran to the drawer. In it were boxes of different-sized hypodermic needles. He grabbed the vial and looked at it. He eyed the label and saw the word: barbiturate.

Then it hit him. The Indian man—the doctor’s assistant.
He had killed him!

He ran out of the infirmary and down the marble hallway. The front door was open. Running outside, he tripped over something on the front porch. He caught himself against a stone column, which painfully stopped his fall.

On the porch he saw what had tripped him. The body of the white-haired doctor lay neatly across the wooden planks of the porch.

A hypodermic needle hung loosely from his neck. Looking frantically back and forth, York saw no one.

York didn’t know what to do.

He was in India and alone.

His commander was dead.

Out of his periphery, a slow-moving figure caught his attention. York tensed his muscles, readying to attack.

From the shadows, Baju-kaki emerged. A lone tear trickled down the left side of her face. There was a tremble in her small hands.

York was frozen. After a long moment, he held out his palms toward the old woman as if to say
what next?

She understood.

Baju-kaki looked at Dr. Hora and held one hand to her mouth. The pain of his death could be seen across her weathered and tired face. She shuffled toward York and grasped his forearm with her shaking hand. Gently she pulled him into the house. Inside, they were standing next to a chest of drawers.

She opened one and pulled out a thick, rolled-up wad of rupees.

Gesturing for York to come closer, she put her mouth near his ear, and said, “They come for you. Run.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

LEAVING IT ALL BEHIND
DULLES INTERNATIONAL
AIRPORT

W
ashington Dulles was as busy as its reputation. This was good. Michael knew it would be easier to blend in with the crowds. He made sure to keep his face lowered, never raising it above forty-five degrees; this would render the CIA’s face recognition program nearly—but not completely—useless.

He found a restroom and an unoccupied stall. He removed the black duffel bag from his shoulder and ruffled through its contents. As fast as he could, he removed his pants and shirt and, in their place, donned a fresh set of clothes.

Michael checked the bag for the other things he needed. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found them: an American Express card that was linked to a dummy account, a small stack of euro notes, multiple passports, and a cell phone with a European SIM card.

Opening the stall door, he stepped out. No one was around, and he took the opportunity to shove his discarded clothes into the trash. It was then he noticed the dried blood on his forearms and the hallmarks of handcuffs scraped across his wrists.

He hurried to one of the sinks and looked at himself in the mirror. Instead of seeing himself, he saw Sonia. His hands gripped more firmly onto the porcelain edges of the sink. He had to shake her from his mind. He forced himself to focus on the mission; it was what he was trained to do. Only then did he see his own face.
You look like shit, Michael!

Across his face were salted streaks of dried sweat, and his hair was nowhere near in place. A few small scrapes and bruises adorned his right cheek, but nothing that would draw too much attention. Michael turned on the water and started to wash away the dirt, sweat, and bloodstains. He then wet his hair and pushed it straight back with his hands, combing it with his fingers.

Picking up his bag, he left the restroom. Once outside, he looked around. His gaze was focused. He eyed the crowds carefully; he looked for any telltale signs that he was being watched. He checked for the two-man spotter teams, for cameras that may be pointed in his direction, and for anyone that appeared out of place. His senses were on fire; his mastery of counter-intelligence was in action.

Onward he walked, his path known.

Soon, he saw it. On the far end of the terminal was a sign that quietly marked the location for the airport’s business center.

He made his way there.

Inside, he found an empty desk; on it were a computer, printer, and fax machine. He swiped the American Express card through the credit card reader attached to the computer, knowing full well he couldn’t use it again. An electronic warning would soon be on its way to Langley, telling them his location. He didn’t have much time.

He went to work.

A signal was routed to the desk of the section chief at Langley.

“Damn it, Michael—what are you doing?!” he stammered to no one in particular, and then shouted through his office door, “Mr. Garrido, get in here.”

At the airport’s business center, Michael typed furiously. He checked his watch—forty-seven hours, thirty minutes. But it wasn’t the countdown that had him worried. He knew that right now, Langley would have already been alerted to the dummy card’s usage. Meant to be untraceable by those on whom the CIA spied, when used, the CIA would know within minutes. It was a way to keep track of officers, as well as their illicit and licit expenses.

Michael logged into his personal e-mail account and easily found the itinerary for a flight that he had taken recently.

Sonia had been complaining about how he never stopped working, so he had agreed to take a quick weekend trip to the Florida Keys. The flight information was still in his inbox, and, after a few more keystrokes, the printer spat out three copies of the expired boarding passes.

Next to the computer monitor was a container of pens, a scissors, clear scotch tape, and some whiteout.

Michael went to work. He began cutting and taping away at the different pages. Within two of the printed pages, he found the right series of numbers and carefully cut them apart from the pages. He painstakingly laid them over the remaining printout and then taped them meticulously into place: he was covering the date of his trip to the Keys with a new date. His work would appear sloppy under severe scrutiny, but he did his best to make it passable at a glance. Soon he had created a new boarding pass, current with today’s date.

With a few strokes of the whiteout, he was able to crudely clean up any errant black marks or smudges that seemed out of place.

It was rudimentary, but it just might pass. He went to the business center’s printer and made a copy of the hastily put-together boarding pass.

With a fresh copy of the forgery now in his hand, he inspected the new page for any signs of obvious imperfections. Satisfied that there were none—at least none available at first glance—he folded it over a number of times to give it some creases and the appearance of being aged.

As he was leaving the business center, he saw a neglected cup of coffee sitting next to another man. The man wasn’t looking his way; Michael grabbed the coffee and then left.

Once outside, Michael took the forged boarding pass and set it on the ledge of a nearby phone booth. He opened the cup of still steaming-hot coffee and poured some on the paper.

The line to security wasn’t long, and it moved quickly.

The TSA agent waved him forward. She was an older, portly woman who wore entirely too much perfume and even more makeup.

TSA doesn’t check the bar code for a legitimate ticket, which was done at the gate. They only crosschecked the name and date. That was it.

He let out a slow breath and handed her the boarding pass.

Time slowed down.

The agent seemed to be scrutinizing the boarding pass a bit more closely than she had the others.

She raised her head to Michael and said, “Couldn’t handle your coffee, eh?”

Smiling, she handed it back, waved him through, and then said, “Next!”

Michael quietly let out a breath of relief as he walked through security. Once through, he found the monitors for departing planes. TAP Portugal Airlines had a flight leaving for Lisbon in ten minutes.

He hurried to the mobile lounge and was able to jump on the awkward-looking vehicle just as the doors closed. The carriage was fifty-four feet long and sixteen feet wide and looked like it was designed for transportation on the moon. Within minutes, Michael was at the C Concourse and in front of a TAP Airlines flight attendant.

As was typically the case for airport workers, the woman ignored his presence although he stood a mere two feet in front of her. She banged away at the keyboard as if the end of the world was about to happen, and it was her work alone that would stop it.

After a number of moments, Michael’s impatience grew, so he decided to speed things a bit. He dug into his bag and pulled out a set of pilot’s credentials. The placard carried his picture under the logo for United Airlines and had the title Senior Captain written in gold.

He flipped the identification on the counter and cleared his throat. Over the top of her glasses, the gate attendant peered at the pilot’s badge and immediately stopped what she was doing.

Ignoring the fact that she had been ignoring him, she asked, “What can I do for you, Captain?”

Michael smiled and said, “I just finished piloting in from San Francisco and am on holiday for a few days; I thought a trip to Lisbon would be nice. Please ask your captain if the jump seat is available.”

A little professional courtesy goes a long way
, thought Michael. His fingers were crossed.

It took only a few minutes, and soon she asked for Michael’s passport, which he obligingly handed over. Soon, she gave the passport back along with a boarding pass.

Apparently, a seat was available.

“Travel safe, Captain. Glad to have you aboard. We’ve already boarded; give us a minute to let the passengers settle in. For now, just have a seat until I call you.”

Michael nodded and offered his thanks through a smile. Taking his seat, he looked at his watch again, and then scanned the terminal for signs of his people. A minute just might be too long.

At that moment his cell phone rang. Looking at its screen, he saw the number was from overseas. “What now,” he said out loud, just before answering.

“Yes?”

The voice he heard was frantic and fast. It was York.

“Slow down, kid,” Michael said as he got up and walked to a more private area. “What’s going on? Where are you?”

“Sir, they killed the captain! He’s dead, sir! He’s fucking dead, and I have no idea what to do!”

“Kid,” Michael interjected, “you are going to have to get yourself together.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” shouted York. “The captain’s dead! They got to us somehow! Who the hell are these people, Doc? Why haven’t they killed me?”

“Listen to me and listen carefully,” Michael replied, lowering his voice. “I do not have answers for you. You cannot waste your time trying to get them. Tell me, where are you now?”

“I’m in India, just like you told me. I got us to Mumbai and found the doctor. He patched up the captain, but then his assistant killed him while we were sleeping. He killed the doctor, too!”

Damn it! Doctor Hora was a damn good man.

“Okay, kid.” Michael’s voice deepened, and he continued, “I am only going to say this once. I am off the grid. So are you. Contact no one. When I end this call, you will forget this number. Now listen carefully: I want you to get to the Solar Do Castelo in Lisbon, Portugal.”

Before Michael could finish, York screamed, “Portugal! You want me to go to fucking Portugal! How in the hell am I supposed to do that? I’ve got no passport, no clothes, and only a handful of rupees!”