by Joseph Nagle
Michael knew that the investigation and budget cuts were nothing more than an election-year, political attention-grabber. The head of the Intelligence Oversight Committee—Senator Elizabeth Door—was predicted to be on her way to the White House; a fierce and savvy politician, she wasn’t afraid to step on anyone’s toes along the way.
Leaning back in his chair, Michael looked at all of the unfinished work and let out a long, heavy breath. He had been the deputy director for almost three years, but it felt like ten. In the background, the TV was tuned into CNN. The anchor droned on about a new offensive taking place in Afghanistan; he wasn’t paying the broadcast any attention.
Michael missed special operations. He had been a damn good operative—the best, some would say. But a few years ago, the president of the United States had personally offered him the promotion to deputy director. Who turns down the president? It was supposed to have been a reward.
Since that time, Michael’s life had completely changed. He had moved from Denver, Colorado, to Oakton, Virginia, so that he could be closer to Langley, the headquarters of the CIA. His wife, Dr. Sonia Sterling, MD, had been fortunate to find a senior position in the pediatrics department at Johns Hopkins, but still she constantly lamented the toll that the move had taken on their personal and professional lives.
Sonia’s new position was nearly as demanding as Michael’s; the requirements of her role had her at the hospital almost every day of the week. Their relationship no longer benefitted from weekends at their cabin in the mountains of Colorado, day trips to ski at Vail or Keystone, long hikes, or something as simple as an evening meal together. Their cabin, which had served as a respite from work, was nestled between two rising mountain faces, and while it had been an easy fifty-mile drive from their old home in Denver, it was now a fifteen-hundred-mile flight away.
It might as well be on the other side of the planet.
Michael sighed heavily.
Sometimes he wished that he had become a professor—just like his father. Michael’s doctoral work was in religious studies with a focus on the correlation between the growth of government and the power of the church, in particular, in the Middle East.
Somewhere in the back of his neck, a muscle strained to support the weight of his head; it was a strain that seemed to arrive the moment he had accepted the position of deputy director, and it was obviously destined to reside there until he was either dead or retired, whichever came first.
His rise to deputy director of the NCS had been as dramatic as it had been meteoric. Almost three years ago, he had uncovered highly placed moles in both the CIA and Hezbollah. The moles were part of an esoteric group whose mission was to infiltrate governments and control politics from within. The mole in the CIA gave Iran the blueprints for a nuclear weapon through a CIA-designed, but botched operation called Merlin—the operation that Senator Door was now digging into. The mole in Hezbollah had gained control of those weapons.
It had almost worked, but Michael had thwarted the nearly successful attempt by the group to attack the United States with nuclear weapons. The ploy started with the assassination of the ayatollah of Iran, for which Michael was blamed, and was supposed to include the assassination of the pope. It was an assassination designed to look like Iran was behind it and seeking retribution; it was an attack that was designed to draw the United States into a full-scale nuclear war with the Middle East.
Michael’s work had led to the death of his predecessor, Ron Willis—the mole in the CIA—and to his promotion. He and Sonia both had been nearly killed, but Michael fought back and saved not only Sonia’s life, but also millions of American lives. The nuclear missiles had been launched from the shores of Iran and aimed at the United States. There were forty-eight nuclear warheads—MIRVs—in total. With the help of then-PFC York, Michael located the group’s lair and disarmed all of the warheads except for one. The remaining warhead fell harmlessly into a Nevada desert. The only casualty had been a hermit and his dog. (Although not a single person knew of their deaths.)
Michael was a hero—albeit his actions were classified—but really, he felt like had been punished. He missed his time in special operations, and he longed for the freedom to be in the field with a weapon in his hand—where budget reports, efficiency ratings, and political inquiries by oversight committees didn’t matter.
Why did I take the promotion? Michael thought.
He reached up to massage his sore neck and closed his eyes as if to contemplate, but really, he was just trying to find a moment where nothing invaded his mind. He tried to extract a sliver of time where not one single thought related to the monotony of his work would dominate.
It didn’t work.
He opened his eyes and grabbed the empty bottle of Chardonnay. In the garage, he opened the large, purple recycling bin and threw in the bottle. It crashed against a layer of other empty wine bottles and caused Michael to pause. Staring at the growing number of discarded wine bottles, Michael was reminded that in front of him was the telltale sign of a problem, and that problem was staring back at him.
Lately, Sonia’s complaints about his drinking had been growing in frequency and intensity. He knew that there was some merit in her concern, but he felt that he had the drinking under control. He never became drunk or inebriated to the point that he couldn’t function normally. He didn’t become violent or belligerent. His love of wine never interfered with his work or his health. He exercised regularly, more than most, and was capable of doing things that the average person was not.
But still, he drank nearly every day; somewhere within him, this bothered him. But he had never admitted it openly.
Michael closed the lid of the recycling bin and looked at his watch. It was just before one o’clock in the afternoon, and he had already polished off one bottle.
In the house, Michael almost walked past the kitchen. His intention had been to return to the room where his work waited, but, instead, he stopped and opened refrigerator. On the middle shelf were three more bottles of the same vintage Chardonnay, lying on their sides.
Oh, what the hell, it’s Saturday, and I have nothing better to do. Michael grabbed another bottle and returned to his work.
Little did he know, his wish to be back in the field would fast be granted.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HOME OF SENATOR
MATTHEW FAUST
GEORGETOWN—
WASHINGTON, DC
Senator Matthew Faust was enjoying the hot water of his shower as it cascaded over his shoulders and down his back. He reached up and placed one hand on the shower wall, leaning closer to the forceful stream.
It massaged his face, and he felt relaxed.
That would change.
In his bedroom, the phone rang. He hadn’t heard it at first: the loud pelts of the flowing water drowned out most sounds.
The caller was relentless. He didn’t hang up, but just let it ring.
The caller was parked out front of the senator’s Victorian Georgetown town-home. He had watched the senator arrive home thirty minutes ago. He knew that he was still there.
Senator Faust cocked his ear to the side and away from the water. He made out the faint ring of the phone.
“Shit,” he muttered, “every damn time!”
Feeling no need to grab a towel in his empty home, he ran naked to the phone and answered. “Yes!”
“Go to your front door, Senator.”
The line went dead.
Faust slowly hung up the phone; only then did he begin to feel the chill caused by the cool air on his wet body. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist.
Still shivering, he made his way to the front door of his home. As he did, he passed by a window. Outside, the engine of a silver seven-series BMW revved to life. Faust glanced out of the window and toward the car. It was parked at the curb in front of his home; its windows were darkly tinted. It stayed parked for a few long moments.
Faust’s stare never wavered.
Faust drew the shades and stared at the closed window for a moment. He felt nervous, if not afraid. He opened his front door, not sure what to expect. He stepped out but was only met with the blue skies of a crisp, comfortable day. To the south, a breeze sent to him the oft-ubiquitous smells of the Potomac. The sun’s rays enveloped the blue granite and Potomac fieldstone of the stone exterior with a comforting hue of soft pastels. The caressing features of the day meant nothing to him.
As he turned to go back into his home, his foot hit something. It was a small box.
Faust eyed it curiously for a moment, half-expecting the worst. He bent to pick it up; it was lighter than he had thought it would be.
In his home, he withdrew a small knife from its cutlery block and inserted the tip into the tape that sealed the box shut.
Opening it, he stared almost quizzically at the lone item it contained.
He removed the photo; it was a Polaroid. Clever, he thought. Polaroids are pre-digital with no electronic, traceable evidence.
Senator Faust studied the photo, but it wasn’t necessary to do so. A smile stretched across his taut, patrician face. He immediately knew what they were going to do, how they would get him into the White House. Opening a drawer, he removed a book of wooden matches and struck one. Holding the flame to the photo’s corner, he watched as the slight flicker grew into lengths of fire.
Dropping the nearly consumed photo into the sink, he watched as the face of Senator Elizabeth Door burned; he watched until the image was nothing more than an unrecognizable lump of molten and charred photo stock.
Standing a bit more upright, Senator Matthew Faust instantly felt more important, more powerful.
CHAPTER EIGHT
6 PLACE DU PARVIS
NOTRE DAME
ÎLE DE LA CITÉ—PARIS
Eyeing the dead soldier one last time, Charney turned away from his victim.
Climbing the stairs that led to the top of Pont Neuf, he passed a number of lower-ranking soldiers who immediately snapped to attention and saluted with their palms facing outward. With a snap of military precision in his arm movements, he returned their salutes with one of his own and then crisply marched away.
He was on the west side of the island, standing before the impressive twin, two-hundred-and-twenty-eight-foot-tall, gothic towers of Notre Dame; they were the most recognizable feature of the cathedral and nearly as iconic to Paris as the Eiffel Tower. The vertical, angular towers had inspired all that is gothic in France since 1163 and were repeated in form on other façades; they commanded a distinct shift from the monotony and cleanliness of Romanesque architecture.
But there was only one Notre Dame.
The twenty-eight statues of the kings of Judah and Israel—the Gallery of Kings—stared down upon Charney from under the balustrade in the very manner that he stared at them: with a quiet respect. His pulse quickened at the sight of them; a slight film of sweat lined the inside of his collar.
These were not the originals.
In past centuries, an erroneous belief among the commoners had grown that the full-bodied carvings represented the French kings that had reigned from Childebert I to Philippe Auguste. To them, the statues were a stark reminder that feudal privileges were saved only for the aristocratic class and the Church. The frustration of the populace, built from centuries of codified oppression, had led to social and an optimistically destructive upheaval: the French Revolution. The original kings had been destroyed in 1789, but they were later rebuilt during one of the cathedral’s reconstructive periods.
His senses told him that those same kings were in heaven—some in hell, maybe—either admonishing or admiring him for the work that he had done, for the work that was still to be done.
He felt a twinge of guilt that they would have to be destroyed once more. They were quite striking and would have been a welcomed addition to his collection of history.
Just above the statues was the West Rose Window—ten meters in diameter and of the most intricate detail. The stained glass dated to the early thirteenth century and had survived turmoil, wars, and the French Revolution.
But it wouldn’t survive today.
Charney smiled at the irony: the theme of the window was human life. He was here to steal that life away.
Standing erect in the crisp uniform of a Gendarmerie Nationale Commandant, Charney brushed dust from his sleeves that wasn’t there and patted his trousers as if the action would make the creases stand out more. He readied to move toward the south tower of the Cathedral. He hadn’t made it more than three steps when he felt a tug on his elbow.
“Hey, Mister,” said the unseen man.
Charney turned and was faced with a young couple wearing the wide smiles of the obvious: Americans and newlywed.
Of course.
“Please, man-sure, can I take a picture of you with my wife?” begged the man.
Charney cringed at the crude attempt to pronounce monsieur, and he had to maintain his composure at the misuse of the verb that means to be able.
Of course, you are able to take a picture. It appears that you are not an invalid, at least for the moment.
It was his ornamental dress that drew their attention to him. The kepi was distinct and acted more as a beacon than as headgear.
He quickly offered the two a polite smile before he said, “Of course you may; however, the best spot for a photo is on the Pont de l’Arcevêché; it is on the southwest corner of the bridge.” Charney turned and pointed toward the other side of Notre Dame. He wanted to rid himself of these pests. “It is on the other side of the bridge. I am sure that you will find many of my comrades who will be just as willing to be in a photo with your wife.”
“Thanks, man. Marshy,” the American excitedly blurted out.
Marshy? Charney didn’t think of himself as a petty man, but the bastardization of his language, and of a word as simple as merci, grated the space in his mind reserved for the respect of it.
“Monsieur,” Charney called out to the American, “on second thought, one of the more classic places for newlyweds is under the west Rose Window. You must have your photo there. You will cherish it forever, I promise.” Charney motioned the American closer and whispered, “And I will let you on a little secret—it will be one of the best spots to see the president of France. He will be visiting here within the hour.”
“Oh, wow! Thanks, man-sure.”
The American grabbed his young wife by the hand and tugged her toward the west entrance of the cathedral.
Charney cracked an evil smile.
With long and purposeful strides, he covered the distance to the south tower in less than two minutes. The Pont Neuf was infested with the hordes that somehow felt connected to the cathedral and with the officials obligated to guard it. His face was hard and creased, and the squint of his eyes spoke of authority. Not one man or tourist stepped in his way.
As many times as he had been inside of the cathedral, he was always overwhelmed by how vast it was: at one hundred and thirty meters long and forty-eight meters wide, it was like an ornate canyon, a labyrinth of history.
He shivered.
To his right, the flowing robes of a fast-moving man caught his attention. I am in luck, he thought.
“Father, Father!” called out Charney.
The black-cassocked priest stopped in his tracks and cast a hard glance of impatience at the faux-commandant. “Yes, what is it?”
“Father, if you would indulge me, please; I am looking for something.”
The priest moved closer and irritatingly asked, “Well, don’t hold back, Commandant, what is it that you seek?”
Charney moved closer to the ordained man as well, and when he was close enough to him that he could smell his breath, he growled, “The Crown of Thorns.”
The priest was confused by the response and uttered a small, uncomfortable laugh, but before he could speak, Charney had him by the throat. The intricate carvings that surrou
nded the priest went black as the colors of the stained glass melted into one. His hold on conscious thought drifted. Charney watched as the man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and then, before he fell to the ground, he grabbed him and dragged him to the staircase at the base of the south tower.
Charney glanced up and sighed. He dreaded this part, but it was necessary. Putting the priest over his shoulder—as if to intimate the mythical hunchback—Charney carried the man up the four hundred and twenty-two stairs, one agonizing step at a time.
The sweat started to pour, and the farther he rose, the more his legs quivered and burned under the weight of the priest.
Good thing he was a small man, thought Charney.
Grabbing the railing with his right hand, Charney grimaced with each push up the stairs. The farther he climbed, the narrower the steps became. The wood creaked under their weight, but he knew it would hold. For years, and at ten euros per person, these very stairs had been climbed countless times. At the top, Charney tossed the priest heavily to the wooden floor; the back of his head cracked loudly when it hit.
The priest stirred and groaned; his eyes fluttered open. Above the two men, dangling from the rafters, was the thirteen-ton Emmanuelle bell. In his face was the squared end of Charney’s pistol.
Charney slapped the man with the gun; the priest responded with a shallow gasp.
“Look at me, Priest,” Charney icily commanded.
The priest’s eyes focused in on the man and, cowering from the gun, he asked, “What do you want?” There was fear in the priest’s voice, as if he knew what was to come.
“I have already told you what I want—the Crown of Thorns. Tell me where it is!”
With a raspy voice, he said, “It is kept in the cathedral treasury, everyone knows this!” His voice was weak from both fear and the crushing effects of his attacker’s hands.