The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (52 page)

Clearing his throat, York could feel his face flush as he suddenly felt ashamed.

The young woman smiled slightly as if noticing the soldier’s sudden tussle with decency, but more so, it was a smile at his youth. She sat down and slowly crossed her legs purposefully, playing with the man who had now reverted to the uncomfortable behaviors of a boy. She pointed to a chair near hers. York understood the message and sat, too.

From the table, without taking her eyes off of the handsome young man, she picked up a pack of cigarettes and lit one. Tossing the pack to York, she offered him the same pleasure. Catching it clumsily, he said, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

As the smoke curled around her lips and through her nostrils, she smiled and replied coyly, “You should. It’s a dangerous game you are playing; one with a short lifespan—you should enjoy as much of life’s sins as you can.”

“So,” York repeated, “what is this place?”

“Officially, this is the address to a business called Curb Appeal, an export company for men’s skincare.”

“That’s just a cover, right?”

She smiled and thought that this one was as much a child in the spy game as one could be. “This is a safe house, Monsieur…?”

“York.”

“Monsieur York, you are in my safe house. My name is Danielle.”

“And you live here?”

“Oui.”

“And you and the Doc are…?” York didn’t know how to say it, so he went into a fit of awkward pantomimes and gestures.

Danielle rolled her eyes backward and forcibly blew out a long plume of smoke. “You Americans! You are so afraid to speak about what is in your minds! What Michele is to me is not any of your concern! This is a CIA safe house; this is why you are here—to be kept safe; that is your only care at the moment! Mon Dieu! The CIA must be running out of men to send to me a boy!”

Danielle stood and stomped toward an oak table, atop which were a number of bottles of alcohol. She took out two glasses and poured a whiskey, no ice, for herself, and then asked York, “What would you like to drink?”

“Nothing, nothing for me; just tell me what’s next.”

“Don’t be silly, have a drink; this is going to be a long, interesting night, and you could use something to help you relax. You are too wound up, how do you Americans say it, like a top.” Danielle poured more whiskey into the second glass and brought them over to York.

She tapped her glass on York’s, and with one quick swallow, she emptied hers. York looked from Danielle to his glass and, not wanting to be one-upped by some clichéd, uppity French chick, downed his.

It burned as it trickled down his throat, and he held his composure the best that he could, but his eyes slightly watered. She smiled and took his glass, apparently entertained by the telltale signs of a rookie whiskey drinker.

At the table, she poured another round, but this time she added two more glasses. Into the third she poured whiskey, but to the fourth, she added three fingers of vodka, no ice.

When she returned to York, all four glasses were on a tray. She set them under the lamp of the side table between where she and York sat.

Danielle picked up a glass and handed it to York.

York eyed the other two glasses. “Are we expecting more people?”

Danielle picked up a remote control and pointed it at a small flat-paneled television that hung on the wall. Turning it on, the screen was emblazoned with live footage of the Westminster hotel. The screen was split, showing a second image; this one was from above. A news reporter and cameraman were in a helicopter, showing dramatic footage of the city from overhead.

“They’ve been broadcasting nonstop for the last hour.”

York watched as a series of events looped over and over again. In the scene it was barely dusk, with just enough light to see clearly. The first time he saw it, York jumped, spilling a bit of his drink. The footage started innocuously, showing only the hotel from above. Then suddenly two men came crashing out of the fourth-floor window. York recognized one of them right away.

It was the Doc!

He looked at Danielle; it was hard to tell, but there was a slight twinge of emotion that surrounded her eyes.

Turning back toward the television, York watched as the two men fell fast. Clouds of shattered glass surrounded them.

The reporter in the helicopter could be heard screaming something. Within moments, the helicopter banked fiercely and toward the scene. Hovering above, the camera caught the drama as it unfolded.

The two men hadn’t fallen four floors. It had been a calculated move by the Doc. He had known what was outside of the fourth-floor window. Two floors down, a second, lower rooftop cut away from the hotel’s edifice.

The cameraman had caught the event live, and now it looped in dramatic fashion over all of the world’s news networks.

Both men landed on the building’s central air conditioning units. The impact caused the galvanized aluminum of the industrial-sized units to crush inward but had cushioned their fall.

The Doc was the first to rise.

The senator looked unconscious.

York watched as the Doc shook Senator Faust onto his feet and smiled when he saw the Doc grab the man by the back of his hair as he dragged him from the rooftop. The helicopter news crew tried in vain to stay with the Doc, and they were able to do so for only a few short blocks. He was just too good. The Doc and the senator disappeared into the street life and the coming dark of the night.

York threw back the second round of whisky; this time he was able to take it more like a man and less like a boy, wincing only slightly this time.

Danielle stood and brought the bottle to the Green Beret. She poured a fresh belt of whisky. He took it, this time without hesitation. He swallowed the booze and actually enjoyed it as it burned going down his throat.

As Danielle stood at his side, she answered his question, “Oui, Monsieur York, we are expecting more people—two to be precise.”

Almost prophetically, there was a heavy knock at the door.

PART III

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

IN A DARK ROOM
CIA HQ

G
arrido was alone and hadn’t left Langley.

Deep in the sub-basement of the CIA’s headquarters, Garrido watched the CNN footage of Dr. Michael Sterling’s kidnapping of Senator Faust and their dramatic escape.

The world may have known that it was the senator falling from the window, but was in the dark about the other man—about Michael. Inside of the hotel, the press conference hadn’t started when Michael had burst through the doors. The cameras had not been turned on. The only footage of the abductor was when he had fallen alongside the senator, from the fourth floor window, along with some grainy hotel camera shots, where Michael had been sure to keep his head down.

But Garrido knew it was the Doc.

He shook his head along with a smile.

Slowly, he rubbed his badly damaged hands with ice. Garrido’s thoughts were singular: he thought about Portugal and wondered what the connection was between Michael’s jaunt through the city to the crown and the shroud; and then there was Operation Merlin and the Iranians. The connection wasn’t being made.

A few hours ago, Lou had taken his own life. It would take less than a day for the CIA’s coroner (who would silently curse the strange uptick in internal deaths) to find the Sodium Pentothal mixed with cyanide in Lou’s system.

Garrido wasn’t worried: there was no way to connect him with the death. Stanford wasn’t the only officer able to tap into and erase any telling recordings.

Garrido unknowingly watched the same footage as the missing Green Beret watched in Paris. He smiled each time he saw the Doc fall from the window and rise with a fistful of the senator’s hair in his hand.

At least he now knew who was at the center of this mess: Senator Matthew Faust.

And then it hit him.

Garrido bolted upright, throwing his feet heavily to the floor from the desktop where they had rested moments ago.

Garrido spat out to no one in particular: “You are in a dark room, Garrido; a dark room with no door, and all that you have is a dead, obsolete operation.”

That was what Lou had condescendingly shouted out before he died. Garrido smiled.
That’s it!

Garrido laughed out loud. “Lou, you son of a bitch!”

Garrido knew; he knew exactly what was happening, why the Order wanted the crown, why they needed the shroud. Operation Merlin made perfect sense. Instantly, he knew why the Doc had been sent to Portugal.

The room was quiet, and Garrido had found a new energy. Moments ago, he had been confined by confusion, but now his mind raced. Standing, he walked toward the television and stopped just short of it. He watched the loop of the Doc two more times and then shut it off.

A new darkness fell over the room; the room’s only source of light came from the LCD of his computer screen. Turning, he moved quickly back to the desk and punched away at the keyboard. It was a simple task that he undertook. There was one safe house in Paris that was under the protection of the Doc. Everyone knew about it, and Garrido calculated that the Doc had figured out the same thing he just had.

He would bet his salary on it: the Doc wanted to be found.

After a moment of a painful flurry—his hands hurt like hell as he typed away—he found it: 67 Rue du Chabrol, #4. Contact: Danielle Juneau. Her picture adorned the right-hand corner of the screen.

Under the name, photo, and address was a videoconference phone number with the necessary code to make the call. Garrido tapped the code into the digitally encrypted video conferencing system, entered the video conference number, and then he stared at his computer screen, waiting for the call to be answered. If he could have crossed his swollen fingers, he would have.

Three rings went by, and there was no answer. Then a fourth and fifth ring; still there was no answer.

Garrido felt his forehead grow hotter; a small bead of sweat trickled down the side of his cheek as he waited.

Come on! Answer!

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

HIS MASTERPIECE
THE LOUVRE—PARIS,
FRANCE

I
t was just beyond dusk; the time was a perfect blend of failing light and impending darkness. Dusk played tricks with eyesight; Charney used this to his advantage.

Had it been completely dark, the blinking lights of the hovering helicopter would have been easily seen against the static light of the stars; and certainly had there been more light above him, the crowds below would have been able to see the canopy of the falling man once his parachute had deployed.

Instead, the world below would be blind to the aerobatic assault taking place; all would go about and continue on with their evening affairs, having no idea what was falling from above. Unbeknownst to the populace below, the History Thief was in a free-fall above the city.

His sights were on his masterpiece, housed in the vast confines of the Louvre below him.

At the right altitude—nearly eighteen thousand feet above Paris—Charney dropped from the small helicopter, rushing toward the city’s rooftops at near terminal velocity.

He would wait to pull his chute; there was no reserve, nor would there be a second chance. Either it would open, or he would die in dramatic fashion.

The wind rushed past his face and roared over his ears. Patiently he waited to pull the chord. Glancing at the soft green glow of his altimeter, he saw that he was seconds away. He maintained his position; the sky was pounding across his torso. At the right moment and with well-trained precision, he steered his body toward the Pavillon Daru—to the south side of the Louvre.

Below was Samothrace; her stony wings spread wide as she appeared to move through the air perched on the bow of a ship. He envisioned that he was doing the same: cutting through the sky; celebrating his victory as she was; thrusting his chest forward in that same victorious manner as he transported from one place to another, to another time. His black jump suit billowed theatrically much like the sheer marble drapery that wrapped Samothrace.

He closed his eyes for a moment; he enjoyed the temporal separation from everything physical.

Perfect,
though Charney.

His altimeter vibrated against his wrist. When he opened his eyes, he was close to the earth; his trajectory had him in the precise spot.

Pulling the ripcord, the ram-air canopy snapped open, decelerating his body exponentially. The chute was less opaque and more transparent, making him near invisible to any of the populace below that might have enjoyed a random gaze into the darkening sky.

The Denon Wing of the Louvre was approaching; Charney steered the chute expertly toward one of its stained cupolas. The winds were light, making his turns without issue. He brought his path into an arc and curled around to the south side of the wing, just above the base of the Escalier Daru—the Daru Staircase.