The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (81 page)

“Turn ourselves in? You’ve got to be out of your mind, Sterling,” shouted Door.

Michael leaped forward and, with his free hand, grabbed the cocksure man by his throat, shoved him against the plane’s bar, and squeezed. He watched as Door’s eyes rolled backward as the blackness from the loss of consciousness set in. Door’s knees weakened; it was then that Michael shoved the pistol between the man’s teeth and pushed him painfully to his knees.

Door’s eyes fluttered, and he gagged on the barrel as Michael screamed at him. “Over the past three days, my house has been shot up, a small bomb was placed in my artery, I was drugged, a needle was buried into my heart, and my wife was kidnapped, dragged across the fucking ocean, and made playmate to a goddamn sociopath! Do you know what it’s like to see the woman you love with a knife at her neck and a fucking gun at her temple?!”

Michael cocked the pistol. “So, if you want to die, then die you will—pulling this trigger will make things much easier! Start talking, you pretentious prick! You have three seconds! Three, two…”

York smiled.

Faust wanted to vomit.

Sheila stared blankly.

Michael shoved the pistol deeper into the man’s throat; tears streamed down Door’s cheeks as his shaking eyes bulged from their sockets.

“One!”

Door started to shout gurgled, indecipherable words and feverishly slapped Michael’s legs over and over again.

Michael pulled the weapon from Door’s throat. Immediately Door collapsed with his hands on the floor. His body contorted oddly from the gag-reflex having been so tested. A bit of sputum hung from his chin. Wiping it awkwardly away, Door slowly pulled himself to his feet; Michael re-aimed the weapon at his head.

“Where is that plane?!” Michael shouted.

Door straightened out his clothing and leaned against the bar. His hands were shaking.

Michael pushed his weapon into Door’s forehead; Door raised his hands in submission.

He then poured himself another belt of Scotch before he said, “Dr. Sterling, I don’t know. I really don’t. That’s the truth.”

It was the truth.

Francis Q. Door didn’t know where the Antonov cargo plane would land, only when. Looking at his watch, he said, “All that I do know is that it’s due to land in three hours, at 5:00 a.m.”

“Oh, give me a fucking break,” shouted York as he ran at Door.

His movements were quick and to the surprise of everyone in the plane. At the bar, York snatched up the small fork that rested inside of a glass filled with olives. The fork firmly in his hand, it traveled in a strong arc at the industrialist.

Door tried to scream, but nothing would come out except for an odd, long groan.

The fork was plunged deeply into the man’s wrist—tongs deep.

“Now tell the rest of the story or I find another fork!” screamed York at Door.

If Michael disapproved of his interrogation tactic, he didn’t show it.

Door slumped against the bar; his lips quivered.

York yanked out the fork to Door’s screams. “Talk!”

Door painfully spat out, “Abu Mohammed Ibrahim! It’s Ibrahim—he’s accepting delivery. That’s all I know, I swear! That was the deal—provide the technology and the uranium-enriching parts. The rest—exchange of money, delivery location—it was to be handled privately, to make sure that nothing got in the way of the delivery. I didn’t want to know.”

York looked at Michael. “Ibrahim was our target in Afghanistan; it was at his cave where my men were attacked. The handoff must be nearby.”

Pain set in; Door grabbed at his wrist and nearly fell to the floor but caught himself. His voice was shaking, but he laughed like a madman when he said, “You can’t change what’s already in motion. You’ve lost, I’m afraid. It’s not that I need to confess, it’s that…it’s that you do!”

Door used what little leverage and bravado he had left. He stood more upright but held his wrist tightly. “The Order is everywhere. We still have people throughout the coveted halls of Langley, in Congress, too. I can make you a hunted man, Sterling, you and York. I’ve already done it once and will do it again! You had the motive to kill my wife! She was the head of the Oversight Intelligence Committee, and she wanted to hang your ass on a line for Operation Merlin’s failure! She wanted to gut your budget and bring your black operations into the public’s eye—that’s right, Sterling! I saw those reports, too. You’re the one with the motive and resources to have her assassinated!”

Door waved his uninjured hand flippantly toward the Green Beret and smiled arrogantly at him. “In this plane are the next president and vice president of the United States! Who the fuck do you think you are, you arrogant bastard, to tell me—me!—how it’s going to be! Stay out of our way, and we’ll have that intelligence erased; you’ll have your wonderful record restored.”

Door was nearly thumping his chest as his vitriol rose. He picked up a linen cloth and wrapped it tightly around his bleeding wrist. “This is how it’s going to be, Sterling. You three are going to put your weapons away and take a seat. Hell, have a drink if you want. But when this plane lands, you are going to disappear—all of you! Take a vacation, retire, or just disappear—take your pick, Sterling, but if I so much think you are anywhere near DC, I’ll make sure that the intelligence is brought under a spotlight and have your ass hunted into extinction. You’re not going to kill me, Sterling—you don’t have it in you; you have too many morals, don’t you?”

Senator Matthew Faust was in shock. A moment ago, he was sure that Sterling—or York—was going to end Door’s life, but now, even after having had a fork shoved into his wrist, Door was working to turn the situation back to their favor.

Michael lowered his weapon.

Door smiled and smacked his lips. “Good boy.”

“All of this just to get at those ore deposits in Afghanistan. Tell me this, Mr. Vice President, how did you find out about Operation Merlin?” Michael asked.

Door thought about the question for a moment and wagered that his answer didn’t matter. “My wife, rest her soul,” he mocked, “was a bit careless with her work; she often brought it home. As the head of the Intelligence Oversight Committee, she had access to a fair number of things. Truth be told, she wanted to put your ass through a ringer—it made you the perfect patsy!”

“She must have safeguarded any classified information?”

“Of course she did, but she was a sentimental woman, that one; she’s been using the same code for her safe for nearly twenty years: our wedding date. It was only a matter of time before she brought something home that would matter to me. I’ve known about Operation Merlin for years; I knew about it when it first failed so miserably. And when I saw the Pentagon reports on those ore deposits in Afghanistan…”

“Your eyes lit up.” It was York’s turn to add something to the conversation. “How can you kill your wife and all of those people; how can you give terrorists the ability to build nuclear weapons?! They’ll use them against us!”

Door’s response was truly evil as he glared at York. “That’s the point.” Door looked at Michael quizzically. “You haven’t told him yet, have you?”

“Told me what?” asked York. “What’s he talking about, Doc?”

Michael answered, “That’s the goal of the Order, kid—to cull the population. They want us to be at war, to constantly be at each other’s throats. It’s how they operate; it’s how they keep their hands on control. They want us to kill each other so that they can maintain control of the resources, of the wealth. He’s right; they are everywhere.”

York’s lips snarled at Door who stood firm with a fresh look of arrogance on his face.

Michael held up his hand as if to say to York
keep it together
. York took the cue, but it was obvious that he wanted to tear Door apart. His body was tensed, and he looked ready to spring forward at any moment.

“Doc?” asked York instead, pointing toward the salon’s television. “May I have the pleasure?”

Michael cocked a thin smile.
Sure, why not.
“By all means, kid; you’ve earned it.”

“Pleasure, what pleasure?” a confused Door asked. “What the hell is he talking about, Sterling?”

York picked up a remote from the salon’s table and pointed it at the flatpanel LCD TV affixed to the wall and turned it on.

“Channel twelve,” instructed Sheila.

“Thanks,” nodded York as he flipped to channel twelve—a live satellite feed from CNN. He turned to Door and Faust. “You two may think you’ve got the White House in the bag; you may think that we parasites, or bugs, or peons—or whatever we are to you—but you don’t know shit. I’ll bet your Order never saw this coming.”

As Door and Faust watched the live feed, the blood drained from each man’s face.

“Impossible,” stammered Door.

“My God,” added Faust.

On the screen, live footage streamed of the once-presumed-dead Elizabeth Door in her hospital bed. Across the bottom of the screen flashed the words: “Alive!”

It was then that Door did collapse into the chair. Ignoring the futile nature of the situation, he weakly said, “This doesn’t change anything, Sterling. I still have the evidence that you and your sidekick here were behind the destruction of Notre Dame.”

The attempt was not a good one. Michael and Door both knew it.

Michael, his weapon still pointed firmly at Door, stepped closer to the man. “You killed thousands in that attack on Notre Dame—they were innocent!”

“Innocent?” Door mocked. “None of them were innocent.”

At that, Michael slapped Door across the man’s jaw with his pistol. Door grunted heavily and fell backward where he sat. Michael screamed at him, “Save your bullshit
the world is full of parasites
speech; I’ve heard it before! The diatribe is tiring, so spare us the Order’s regal, self-anointing pitch!”

Michael re-aimed his weapon inches from Door’s face; Door squinted heavily, his lips quivering. “Dr. Sterling,” Door asked, this time more formally, “how did…how did you know it was me?”

Michael thought about his answer for a moment. Before saying anything, he pointed to Sheila and gestured for her to leave. When she did, Michael said to Door, “In the Secret Archives of the Vatican, stored in their most secured room, I came across a stack of vellums—notes, debts that the Vatican holds. The names on those notes were some of the most well-known on the planet: businessmen, aristocratic families, leaders, dignitaries, and presidents. But the one that was most glaring was for an Armand-Charles de la Porte. At first, I didn’t think much of it—my French isn’t the best—but the name stuck. Porte. That name translated into English means Door. It didn’t take much to do the math: your wife, Senator Faust, your VP nomination. But it was something else, too.”

At that, all eyes in the salon looked simultaneously at Dr. Michael Sterling.

“I couldn’t figure out the connection with Afghanistan. What interest would you have in that war-torn country? The question tormented me to no end; that is, until I remembered the book of satellite images that the kid here carried.”

Michael snapped his fingers at York who reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out the small book. He threw it at Michael. Michael snatched it out of the air and tossed it into Door’s lap.

“Look at the lower right-hand corner, in the margin. What does it say?”

Door did just that and slumped. In small, faded print was the manufacturer’s name. “Door Enterprises,” mumbled Francis Q. Door.

“That’s right, Door Enterprises. Your company,” Michael parroted. “When I was being chased by my own men from my home, I made my way to a safe house—that safe house doubles as the headquarters for the US Geological Survey. There, a map hung on the wall, much like the ones in that book. The map in that safe house outlined mineral and ore deposits in the US—guess whose company made that map? I found it odd that the History Thief demanded that map book from us. Now why would he have wanted that book, Door?”

No one answered; they didn’t need to. They had already heard and recorded the answer earlier.

Sheila returned. She was no longer wearing her flight attendant uniform; instead, she had on a jumpsuit and a helmet. Clear goggles were pulled over her eyes. On her back was a parachute.

She was carrying two other packs and two helmets. York went to her and grabbed one of each and put them on quickly and expertly.

She gave Michael a thumbs-up and then held up two fingers.

Two minutes.

He nodded, understanding the signal.

Michael backpedaled and grabbed the other chute and helmet. He put them on and returned to the two dejected men.

Hovering over Door, Michael said matter-of-factly, “When I said you had one option, I lied.”

Michael shouted through the side of his mouth at Sheila, “Now!”

Michael never took his eyes off of the men; he wanted to see their faces when they realized what was coming. He wanted to see the fear that would flash through them. He wanted them to feel what all of those souls in Notre Dame had felt, what the families of the victims still felt.

What his wife had felt.

He wanted them to feel the presence of death.