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

by Joseph Nagle

  Charney shared the same gaze; he felt no pity for her, she was just another being that walked on the same road he did.

  In reasonably good English, she asked, “Do you need some help, signore?” It was code for do want to pay me for my company?

  Charney was about to wave her off and send her on to her next potential customer, but he caught a glimpse of her eyes. What he saw didn’t make him feel sorry for her. To the contrary, he saw something familiar. He was stunned by the colors of her corneas, which were an odd mix of emerald green with slight flecks of gold; he was even more stunned by how they latched on to his. His impulse was to look away, but yet his stare remained steadfast: they were Annette’s eyes.

  The young girl had readied to turn away from the man, completely tuned in to the signal that she was not wanted, when he said, “Wait.”

  A slight smile widened across her face; she turned back to him, coddled up closer, and purred, “Si, signore? What would you like?”

  Charney let out a long exhale; he studied her eyes again. “I am looking for Hotel Chelsea, do you know it?”

  “Si. We are a short bus ride from it.”

  “Good,” said Charney, “get us there.”

  At the narrow intersection of Via Cappelle Verde and Settembre, Hotel Chelsea sat by no means in an unassuming fashion. To the contrary, although the four-story building matched the city’s uniform skyline and architecture, on the corner of the edifice and hanging loudly over the intersection, buzzed an unnecessary and gaudy neon pink and blue sign that boldly stated the hotel’s place on the corner.

  At the base of the hotel was a small bar called Duomo—fitting, given the place Charney would pay a visit to later that evening. Charney pointed to the bar, and said, “Go in there and wait for me. I am going to check in to my room.”

  The young girl replied, “Of course, signore, but drinks are not free.”

  Charney reached into his pants and pulled out a wad of euros; peeling a ten-euro note from the stack, he handed it to the precocious girl. “I will be down in ten minutes.”

  As Charney checked in to the hotel, he summarily reconnoitered his surroundings. His room was on the top floor, as he had requested, and he noted its proximity to the stairs leading to the roof. This would serve him well later.

  Once settled and satisfied with his room, Charney returned to the bar. Inside, he found the young whore sitting in a dark corner, sipping on a half-empty glass of orange-tinged Barolo.

  Even the street urchins know their wines, thought Charney.

  He sat next to her and raised his hand to the bartender. Pointing at her glass, Charney motioned for two more to be delivered to the table.

  Soon, both sipped on a 1996 Pio Cesare. Charney eyed the long, well-shaped legs of the young harlot. They aroused him. His attention to her appendages did not go unnoticed, and she reached under the table and gave his loins a slight squeeze.

  Charney’s commands were simple. “Finish your wine and then wash that makeup from your face; meet me in my room—412—in fifteen minutes.”

  Committing a minor French faux pas, Charney tossed back the entire glass of wine and left.

  Waiting, Charney sat in the corner of his room, under the low light of the room’s only lamp. At the precise moment, the soft knock of the young girl came through the door.

  “It’s open.”

  The door opened slowly, and the young girl entered. “It will cost you two hundred euros for an hour; five hundred for the night,” she flatly said.

  Charney didn’t say a word. Pulling out his cash, he peeled off five one-hundred euro notes and set them on the table.

  She smiled.

  In a low, baritone voice, Charney said, “Take off your clothes; let me see you without them.”

  Complying with his wishes, she started to remove them. Charney was surprised that she did so slowly and in a sultry fashion. Clearly, she had been working in her profession for some time.

  As she peeled each layer, Charney’s carnal reactions grew. The soft light played with her features, caressing each of her young curves. Her shape was perfect and seemed unused in the dim light. Her silhouette was more than erotic, it was inviting. She stood before him fully nude and beckoned him to her with those green and gold eyes.

  She opened her mouth to speak but before she could say a word, Charney yelled out, “No! There will be no words between us tonight. Now, go and lay down on the bed.”

  Although slightly startled, she was not surprised. Each man that she laid with had his own unique needs; she was only a portal to serve them. On the bed she stretched over its top, her back arched in a manner that begged for Charney to approach.

  She let out a soft purr.

  Charney stood and undressed. His physique did not leave much for a woman to desire. She ran her eyes down his long torso, impressed at its shape. He approached.

  The evening surprised her; his touch was gentle and his lips soft. He was unlike most of her customers who typically used her roughly, to do to her what they could not do to their wives or lovers; to do what they normally never would. He paid attention to her body; he filled her with his passion. Slowly, she allowed herself to relax and to enjoy their mating.

  Their body heat rose, and she could feel his heart beating faster. His hand was firmly on her breast and his groin even firmer against hers. The pleasure began to build, and she could feel the waves of climax beginning.

  At the very moment that his thrusts were at their deepest and her body at its own apex, she felt the firm grip of his hands clamped around her throat.

  The mix of orgasm intertwined with raw fear overwhelmed her senses; her eyes bulged from their orbits, both from the moment and the pressure of his strangulation.

  As her world faded, she heard him repeating the same word over and over again.

  Annette. Annette.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE UNIVERSITY CLUB

  1135 SIXTEENTH STREET

  NW WASHINGTON, DC

  At the intersection of Rhode Island Avenue NW and Sixteenth Street NW, Justine merged the long-bodied Mercedes S500 onto Sixteenth Street and drove south. In the backseat, Senator Faust was preoccupied with the speech she had prepared for him. Quite soon, he would deliver the speech, and the Party would have a new leader.

  Justine drove for a bit over a block, passing M Street NW, and saw the Russian ambassador’s residence. Next to it was the University Club: their destination.

  “Senator, we are here,” Justine said as she quickly made a U-turn in the street.

  The senator didn’t respond.

  Pulling up to the front of the venerable and imposing façade of the club, the private club’s valet opened the door for the senator but ignored her.

  With a contemptuous glare, she threw the keys of the car at the chest of the valet as she walked past him. The senator either didn’t see her ire toward the young valet or didn’t care.

  Inside, a crystal chandelier cast a low light about the entry, bouncing slivers of refracted light off the dark, Corinthian-capped mahogany columns. Well-dressed men and women scattered busily about but stopped their muffled and proper conversations when the senator entered. Justine was always met with two very distinct feelings whenever at the club, feelings that depended on her mood: either richer or glaringly poorer, as if she didn’t belong. Today it was the latter.

  The interior of the club was no less rich in its appointments as its members were literally. Stemming from the financial difficulties brought forth by the Great Depression onto the massacred portfolios of its founding members, the University Club, out of the need for sheer survival, had merged with the Racquet Club of DC in 1936 and moved to its current location.

  A men’s-only, private club for most of its history, the club had vociferously and fervently disallowed membership for women. After many contemptuous and lengthy arguments, women were finally allowed membership and entry to the club in the 1980s.

  To the great disdain of many of its male members,
the practice of lying naked and oiled on the sundeck was ended, lest a female member’s virtue become shamed. On occasion, a blind eye was turned at the old-timers that still bathed stark naked and unabashed on the rare sunny and dry DC day. Like the collegiate practice of signaling the need for privacy between amorous co-eds by putting a hanger on the door, a similar and rudimentary system was enacted. When a towel hangs on the knob of the door leading to the sundeck, be forewarned: on the other side lies a man as he was at birth.

  Although the club had abandoned a number of its darker and more curious practices, the staff still operated under a creed that was designed only to please its members.

  It took a short moment for one of the stiff-backed staff members to recognize Senator Faust’s importance. He rushed to meet the couple just as they passed through the main entrance.

  Justine detected a sniff of excitement in the staff member’s Oxford-accented vernacular. The man reached out to take the senator’s hand, and said, “Welcome, Senator. I am Mr. Pettit; it is always a pleasure to see you.”

  But before he could receive a firm handshake in return, Justine stepped in between the pomp of Mr. Pettit and the senator and said, “Please show us to the Taft Dining Room; the senator is behind schedule. Senator Steinman will be joining us for lunch, be sure to promptly show him to our table.”

  The man stopped short, surprised at the abrupt maneuver by the senator’s underling. He responded without so much as looking Justine in the eyes. Instead, he peered over her shoulder at the senator, as if she didn’t exist, and said, “Of course, Senator Faust. Your party is already waiting. But—” this time he looked directly at Justine. “She cannot come in dressed like this.”

  His eyes ran up and down her body.

  Justine felt her pale cheeks splash bright red and grow hot as the anger raised her blood pressure. She snarled back, a bit too loudly, at the man, “Who the hell do you think you are talking to?! How dare you tell me I cannot go in to the dining room?”

  A number of the club’s other members turned in their direction. Down the bridges of their narrow noses, they shot well-trained, waspy glares of condescending shock at the unrefined conversation unfolding between the two members of—clearly—lower castes.

  The senator smiled at the other club members in a shallow attempt to minimize the public faux pas and quietly whispered to his underling, “Justine, he means that you will have to put on your coat.”

  She felt her face go hotter, this time from embarrassment. In her haste, she had left her coat in the car and was wearing a sleeveless and collarless shirt. The Taft Dining Room’s rules were quite clear: collared shirts, creased slacks, and a jacket for men, comparable dress for ladies. Justine was too casual.

  She dropped her shoulders and felt her back go slightly limp. She was instantly shamed.

  “Justine, go wait in the car; I will call you when my lunch with Senator Steinman is complete.”

  Justine’s shame morphed into a thick, dry lump that expanded in her throat. She looked at the senator and nodded both her acceptance and submission. She dared not look at the overly erect sycophant standing behind her. Justine was certain that she could feel the heavy smugness of Mr. Pettit’s stares glaze coldly over her frame. Like an obedient dog, she complied with her master’s wishes, turned, and went to find the car. Outside, she asked the valet for the keys. They were still in his hand; with his own smug glow, he threw them harshly at her chest, returning the favor. He had witnessed the entire interchange.

  Inside the Taft Dining Room, Senator Faust was escorted to his usual spot near the room’s grand piano. The soft music helped to drown out conversations that were not meant to be heard. Today was a presentation of Beethoven; the pianist was keying a tender and well-played Moonlight Sonata.

  Senator Steinman was already there; he had been waiting impatiently for Senator Faust and was unaccustomed to being servile. The two men eyed each other in a professional manner as Senator Faust approached the table.

  Senator Steinman let out a slow breath, stood, and extended his hand.

  Here we go, he thought.

  A rotund man, Senator Steinman’s fat hand mated well with the girth of his frame. He was over three hundred pounds and wore his hair split down the middle and matted to his skull with pomade. He was a dead ringer for William Howard Taft, the dining room’s namesake. Senator Steinman even wore a thick, graying mustache; the only thing left to do to complete the likeness would be to curl up the ends of the lip hair.

  With his hand still proffered, he said, “Senator Faust, it is good to see you. Thank you so much for making it on such short notice and, in particular, given the circumstances of today’s tragic events.”

  Senator Steinman was being rather formal and political-minded. He dared not call his colleague “Chip” as he normally would. Senator Steinman knew all too well that a very real shift of power was occurring.

  Mr. Pettit’s keen senses, having been built over his numerous years at the Club, as he played witness to multiples of conversations between many powerful men, picked up on the too-formal nature of Senator Steinman’s hello.

  Something was going on.

  Something big.

  He could feel it.

  Senator Faust didn’t return the pleasantries. Only out of necessity, he firmly, but quickly, palmed the meaty hand of Senator Steinman. Letting go, he sat on the chair Mr. Pettit had pulled out for him. On the table rested Senator Steinman’s drink: two fingers of fifty-year old Macallan, served neat. Senator Faust pointed to it and wondered if this was Senator Steinman’s first drink or if his fat colleague was already partway into the bag. It was too hard to tell: the obese man’s face was always striated with permanent and deep crimson blood vessels.

  Mr. Pettit picked up on Senator Faust’s clear signal for a drink, and said, “Right away, sir. Should you need anything else, please let me know.”

  Mr. Pettit left to instruct the wait staff to bring two fingers of the whisky immediately to the senator. As he walked away, he wondered what the hell was happening and decided to be sure to stay as close to the table as possible in order to find out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HOME OF DR. MICHAEL

  STERLING OAKTON,

  VIRGINIA

  The cab dropped Michael at the base of his long, winding driveway. It had taken over an hour to get home. “I’ll walk from here,” he said as he gave the driver three twenties. “Keep the change.”

  Michael closed the door to the cabbie’s thanks and watched as he drove away. His driveway inclined slightly upward, forcing him to lean into his stride as he made his way to his home. Michael noticed that the tree-filled neighborhood was pleasantly quiet. There were no sounds of cars driving by or kids playing in their yards; even the slight, crisp breeze seemed to pass over him unnoticed: there were just the sounds of nothing.

  He hadn’t lived in the neighborhood long enough to know that this was strange.

  On the ground, strewn about the bases of his numerous pawpaw trees, small pods of light-green fruit littered his yard. Michael huffed when he saw them, reminding himself that he had a yard that needed tending; otherwise, he risked the wrath of the community homeowners association. The little creamy fruits attracted a ceaseless stream of nocturnal visits by deer, and the damage they would do to the landscaping would be unthinkable, unforgiveable; the neighborhood just couldn’t have that. According to the community’s declarations, its prestige and “Class-A” appearance must be protected—at least that’s what the letter from the HOA would say.

  But the pawpaws would have to wait. Michael had come home solely to change for his meeting at Langley.

  Michael’s mind wandered back to lunch; he couldn’t stop thinking about Sonia and how angry she had been. He could still feel the alcohol sitting in his stomach; the slight buzz that went along with its ingestion was coupled with a muted pounding just behind his forehead. He rubbed at the pain and couldn’t tell if it was from the events in Paris, his wife�
�s heated diatribe, or the alcohol—perhaps it was a combination of everything.

  Inhaling deeply, Michael made his way to the front door.

  Inside, he wanted a drink. Instead, he sunk into the deep recesses of the aging leather chair in his office, too tired to pour one. Closing his eyes, he promptly fell asleep.

  He was startled awake by the small vibrations of his personal cell phone. The phone’s black LCD screen lit up, showing that the incoming number was blocked.

  He was even more startled when he looked at his watch. Over two hours had passed, but he felt as if he had just closed his eyes. So much for the meeting.

  Shit! he thought.

  “Yes?” Michael answered. He was not expecting the conversation that was to come.

  In Afghanistan, York had not been convinced that the call would even go through, much less that it would be answered. His response confused Michael. “Professor? Professor, is that you?”

  Professor? What the hell? Professor had been Michael’s code name; it hadn’t been used for nearly three years, since “the incident” with Iran.

  The call sounded distant; there was a bit of a delay and scratching feedback. Nonetheless, Michael said, “Sorry, bud. You have the wrong number.”

  Michael almost hung up.

  “Professor! It’s me, York, from CORe! I helped you three years ago when you were in Syria and Italy—don’t you remember me?”

  York? Syria and Italy?

  Michael’s tone became quite serious; he lowered his voice and said, “York, listen closely to me, you are on an unsecured line. Hang up your fucking phone and do not call me outside of protocol.”

  York fumed and sarcastically shot back, “Protocol? No disrespect, sir, but fuck your protocol! I am in Afghanistan and was just attacked by American soldiers; most of my men are dead! You wanna know why I was fucking attacked, Professor?”