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

by Joseph Nagle

  It also allowed the CIA to see anything—and anyone—in near real time, separated only by the fraction of time it takes to send and process the images.

  “Do you have him, Mr. Garrido?”

  “Almost, sir. Another minute or two.”

  “Quit asking me for time; we don’t have another minute or two, Mr. Garrido—get him, now!”

  Jorge typed faster.

  On-screen, a crosshair hovered over the image of the United States. Within moments, the image became Washington, DC.

  “Move, Mr. Garrido! I need him on display now! We have to find him. Every second that we don’t means that the probability of bringing him in vanishes exponentially.”

  Without turning his head, the section chief shouted, “TAC, where’s Lou? Do you have him?”

  “Negative, sir. He was last seen at the Doc’s point of escape. Working his location.”

  The artery in the chief’s neck bulged forcibly, and he shouted, “Why are you all moving like stagnant, fucking pond water?! Get me some usable info; it’s what we do for a living, for Christ’s sake!”

  Jorge ignored the diatribe but found the neighborhood and worked to make the picture clearer. A silver minivan was onscreen. Michael was nowhere to be seen.

  “I have the vehicle!”

  Oh, thank God, thought the TAC.

  “Mr. Garrido, is he still on the phone?” asked the section chief.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get that phone call on the COM; I want to hear what he’s saying.”

  “Accessing the tower now. It’ll take a minute.”

  Instantly, Jorge was angry with himself for asking for another minute. He could feel the heavy stare of the section chief on the back of his head.

  Jorge continued to work.

  He tapped into the cellular network.

  Also not quite so legal, but no one ever asked. Doing it by legal means would have taken entirely too long: requests, warrants, a judge’s signature. It was too much red tape.

  Plausible deniability—a ridiculous, clichéd phrase—but every section chief loved that it existed.

  The section chief snapped his fingers at another analyst and commanded, “Get three teams to the location of that house. Go in heavy. Do it now!”

  He turned his attention back to Jorge.

  “Mr. Garrido, is that home a known asset?”

  Jorge searched for the answer. When he found it, he replied, “No, sir, it is not.”

  “Where is he heading, Mr. Garrido?! Give me some answers!” The section chief was screaming; his face was contorted. “I need you to find him!”

  Turning, he screamed at the rest of the analysts in his section. “Dig deeper, people, he may be good, but he’s just a man. I need to know where he’s going. We cannot let him get off the grid; if he does, we’ll never get him. The net needs to be cast, and I mean now! He cannot get away!”

  The room was a flurry of activity. A cacophony of disagreements between analysts turned into screams. Control of the situation was evaporating; the section chief could feel it.

  “USGS!” Jorge yelled out.

  “What’s that, Mr. Garrido?”

  “Sir, the nearest asset is right around the corner; at the US Geological Society. It’s not a tactical asset. We hardly use it, but it’s less than a mile from this location. That has to be where he is heading!”

  It was at that moment that both men knew that they had been sent down a rabbit hole. It was just more mud on the chief’s face when the day’s current weather repeated through the overhead loudspeakers.

  The section chief’s face had been flushed, but now it had drained white. It had taken too long to find an answer. It was at this precise moment that three heavily armed, black-clad teams could be seen on the large screen at the front of the command center. The minivan was surrounded, as was the house. The order to stand-down was too late. The home’s front and back doors were both smashed inward. Bursts of heated gas escaped from the front end of a couple of M203 grenade launchers. There were a few small explosions and flashes of brilliant light. CS gas poured from the broken doors and windows of the home. Armed CIA Special Activities Division operatives cleared each room.

  Michael wasn’t there.

  The section chief knew it. His face burned crimson once more as the blood returned.

  “Turn it off, Mr. Garrido.”

  The audio of Michael’s call piped incessantly through the command center.

  …today’s temperature is a pleasant sixty-eight degrees; relative humidity is at sixty-two percent…

  Jorge smiled as he said to himself, Touché, Doc.

  “He’s bought himself some time, sir,” said Jorge. “Shall I redirect the teams to USGS?”

  Sheepishly, the section chief replied, “Yes, Mr. Garrido, redirect them. Let’s just hope it wasn’t enough; and turn off that goddamned audio!”

  My bet is that it was, thought Jorge, as he turned off the repeating weather report.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  OLD FRIENDS, NEW

  ENEMIES US GEOLOGICAL

  SOCIETY

  Michael had been running fast and his breathing was still labored, but he hadn’t stopped moving. The toll of having become a desk jockey was palpable, but he was still capable, and more than most.

  He knew that his time was running out. Nearly five minutes ago, he had seen the black OH-58D flying overhead. It was the Company’s. By now, they probably had found the minivan and realized the phone call was a decoy.

  Keep running, Michael, he told himself.

  He figured he had five minutes at best.

  As he ran through the parking lot, he could see a lone door just ahead. Heading for it, he didn’t have time to be delicate. He put his head down and his shoulder into the door just at the point where the deadbolt entered into the frame—any door’s weakest spot.

  Splinters shattered inward and rained down onto the freshly waxed floor; to his right, on the wall, hung an office directory.

  He traced his index finger down the list of offices and stopped when he found the one he needed: Strategic Employee Development Consultant—RM 109.

  One man stuck a curious face through his office door and into the hallway—a weekend warrior putting in some extra hours. Michael ignored him.

  To no one in particular, Michael muttered, “First floor, at least one thing is going easy today.” The room was just down the hall.

  Michael hurried past numerous three-dimensional topographic maps of the United States that adorned the walls like tapestries. There were large shaded blocks over parts of the maps, indicating the location of the US’s numerous mineral and ore deposits.

  The US Geological Society was created in 1879 to examine geological structure and to understand mineral resources and products of the national domain. It was the last piece of the USGS’s mission statement that the CIA was most interested in.

  The CIA cannot operate on US soil, and the USGS offers a way for the Company to put assets into place covertly and without congressional questions.

  Products of the national domain included intelligence on the nation’s energy and hydrologic and topographic resources. More to the point, the CIA was keenly interested in keeping tabs on any unnatural changes to the national domain that might signal penetration into the country by terrorists.

  Spikes in energy consumption, or the finding of certain chemicals in the nation’s water table, could indicate illicit activities by both foreign and domestic terrorists.

  It was the former that the CIA was most concerned with. The latter was the FBI’s domain.

  The office to which he was now headed was an asset of the CIA and where he would meet Lou.

  In Room 109, Lou waited nervously and eyed his watch over and over again. He had to remind himself that this was Michael; he remembered the uncountable missions on which Michael had risked his life for the country, the many missions that saved an unknown number of innocent lives. He recounted the time in Algeria that Micha
el had carried him, one agonizing step at a time, down a mountainside in the middle of a firefight.

  Lives had been lost that day, but his had been saved.

  He owed it to Michael.

  Through his shirt, Lou fingered the bulbous scar on the right side of his ribcage. He winced. It still hurt. It was the place that two 7.62mm rounds from an AK-47 had entered into his side; one of the rounds still remained embedded into his flesh. It was too close to a major artery, the doctors had said. He thought he had died that day. Michael, then a fresh-faced graduate from the farm, had picked him up from the dirt, thrown him over his shoulder, and saved his life.

  Michael had gone back for more of the wounded. He had been relentless in his heroism and in the face of certain death.

  Lou said out loud to the empty room, “You’d better make it.”

  “I certainly hope you are talking about me, Lou.”

  Lou spun around and was face-to-face with Michael.

  Both men offered their versions of a smile.

  Michael walked in and closed the door. Before he could say anything, Lou asked, “Michael, what the fuck, man? What the hell is going on?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. How long do I have?”

  “Four minutes, maybe five.”

  “Lou, they’ve taken Sonia!”

  “Sonia?” Lou was surprised. “Who has Sonia? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Lou, I haven’t a clue, and I can’t waste any time trying to figure it out right now. They have my wife! Now, what have you got for me?”

  “You are wanted for the death of Senator Door. You and SSG York, the kid that saved your ass in Damascus a few years back.”

  “I figured as much, Lou. York called me just before all this went down. He was on a mission in Afghanistan with his A-team. They found some intel in a cave that links the two of us to the assassinations. They were ambushed but were extracted by three Blackhawks. Once they were airborne, the crews attacked what was left of his team. Killed all of them except York and his commander,” explained Michael.

  “A clean-up team?” asked Lou.

  “Smells that way,” replied Michael.

  Then it hit Lou. “Jesus Christ, Michael: a clean-up team in Afghanistan that posed as American soldiers; three Blackhawks? This shit is slightly beyond my pay grade!”

  “They were most likely mercenaries, guns-for-hire,” said Michael.

  “Who the hell has the kind of resources to do that? Do you know the logistical nightmare it would take to get three fully armed Blackhawks secretly into Afghanistan, not to mention three squads of mercenaries, with no one having even the smallest clue?”

  Michael answered, “Depends on who you paid and how much.” Then he asked, “What else do you have?”

  “Before we apprehended you at your house, we were briefed on Door’s death. Turns out that the Crown of Thorns went missing when she was killed.”

  “The Crown of Thorns?” Michael was confused.

  “Yeah. It belonged to Notre Dame and was kept on the grounds.”

  Michael walked slowly around the room for a moment; he was thinking. Then he asked, “A decoy?”

  “Can’t be sure,” replied Lou.

  “Seems like a pretty noisy way just to steal a relic, don’t you think?”

  “If that’s making your what-the-fuck light start to blink, listen to this. About thirty minutes ago the Shroud of Turin was stolen. Interpol has linked the two thefts. They found forensic evidence of a twelfth-century grenade at both scenes. They match.”

  “Has it hit the press yet, Lou?”

  “Not yet, but you know that it won’t be long. Word has it that our counterparts with the DCRI have asked for some time before the info gets leaked.”

  “French intelligence, huh?” replied Michael. “Looking to wipe that egg off their faces. How long were they given?”

  “Twenty-four hours,” replied Lou.

  Michael furrowed his brow tightly, and then said, “So we have a thief hellbent on stealing important religious items, and who gets his balls tickled by doing it in a dramatic fashion. He kills the president of France and an American senator who, it just so happens, was favored to win the US presidency, and both just happen to be at Notre Dame? Jesus, Lou, none of this makes any sense. What do York and I have to do with all of this? What does the senator’s death have to do with the thefts of religious relics?”

  Lou’s response was matter-of-fact. “You have everything to do with this, Doc.”

  Michael’s head snapped up; there was a bite in his tone when he said, “What the hell are you talking about, Lou?! Just how in the hell do I have everything to do with this?”

  “Think about it, Doc. Door was sniffing around Langley, looking for dirt: anything to make a name for herself. She wanted to win the White House and was right on track to do so. She was also the head of the Intelligence Oversight Committee; everyone knows that she was a budget hawk, and that she was trying really hard to make Langley’s black ops budget public. That’s your budget, Doc.”

  “And she wanted to cut it,” muttered Michael as he started to put Lou’s logic together.

  To say that the senator wanted to just cut Michael’s budget was to put it lightly: she wanted to slice it in half. That meant more than just less funding; it meant that jobs would have to be lost. Even worse, she had wanted to make any black, untraceable budget public.

  Michael ran his fingers slowly through his hair, but really wanted to pull some out. Money, he thought. Just once I wish it could be about something else.

  Lou continued speaking. “It gets worse, Doc. Word in Division is that she came across info on one of your operations, too.”

  Michael looked uneasily at Lou and wondered if he knew.

  He asked, “Which operation?” and hoped that Lou didn’t know.

  “This is about Merlin, isn’t it, Doc?”

  He knew.

  “Merlin? Never heard of it.” Michael did his best to seem disinterested, if not apathetic.

  “Don’t give me that shit, Doc! We’ve been friends for a long time. Hell, I owe you my life! But this runs deep, and I’m right in the middle of it. So don’t hide behind your fucking clearance and that ‘need to know’ crap! I’m risking more than just my career; I’m looking at treason charges, for Christ’s sake! You know, aiding and abetting an enemy of the state. So drop the tired never heard of it bullshit! Level with me, Doc.”

  Michael calculated the potential outcomes; the result was always the same. Lou was right: he was so deep into the shit that his nostrils were filled with it. Hell, he probably could smell it.

  “Okay, Lou,” Michael replied, “but be careful what you wish for. Keep your lip zipped on this.”

  Lou nodded.

  Michael continued, “Merlin was an operation that went bad. It was before my time as deputy director and belonged to my predecessor. I had nothing to do with its creation.”

  “What was Merlin, Doc?”

  “Operation Merlin gave Iran the ability to build a nuclear warhead.”

  “Nukes? Iran? You gotta be kiddin’ me, Doc?”

  “I wish that I was. Remember that nuclear detonation a couple of years ago, outside of Las Vegas?”

  Lou’s brow furrowed as he worked to remember. It took only a few moments, “Yeah—yeah, I remember. Some underground detonation, a test by the DOE.”

  “No, Lou. It was a real strike from Iran.”

  “Get the fuck outta here! Are you yankin’ my chain?” Lou’s face drained of its color as he digested what Michael had just told him.

  “It was very real. Forty-eight warheads—Iranian warheads—were headed to the US. But it wasn’t the Iranians that launched them. A group that wanted the nuclear strike to look like an Iranian attack hijacked them; they wanted to draw the US into a full-scale war. But we were able to stop the warheads—all but one. We were fortunate that it hit where it did.”

  “So we covered it up? But I don’t understand: why would we giv
e Iran the blueprints for a nuclear weapon?”

  “The mission was to give them an erroneous blueprint, to send their nuclear ambitions back a couple of decades. We were sending them down a rabbit hole. But the asset that delivered them turned on us; he gave his Iranian contacts with the IAEA a set of flawed instructions—the ones he was told to give—but he corrected the flaw.”

  “Holy shit! This is why Door was gunning for Langley, why she wanted to go public! It was a way to get her ticket to the Oval Office punched.”

  Michael shrugged in agreement.

  But it had gotten her killed.

  Lou thought for a moment; a quizzical look draped across his face, and he asked, “I don’t understand something, Doc. How did she know about Merlin?”

  Lou didn’t wait for an answer, he already knew: “She had someone on the inside.”

  “It appears that way, Lou.”

  “But, Doc, I still don’t understand something,” said Lou.

  “What’s that?” asked Michael.

  Lou’s question was simple. “Why steal the crown and the shroud? I mean, what the hell does the assassination of a president and a president wannabe have to do with them?”

  Michael sat stonefaced for a moment. His mind labored at the question; he wanted to be able to connect the dots; he wanted to have an answer, but there were too many variables, too many trails leading in different directions: York, Afghanistan, a rogue team of American soldiers, assassinations, the kidnapping of his wife, and art theft. And now this: the head of the deputy director of the National Clandestine Services was wanted served up on a platter—his head.

  Unable to answer Lou’s question, Michael only said, “I don’t know what the connection is, Lou, but I aim to find out.” Then he asked, “Did you bring me my stuff?”

  Lou walked over to a cabinet and opened it. From inside, he grabbed a black duffle bag, threw it to Michael, and said, “It was right where you said it would be. The team didn’t find it when they swept your house.”

  “Remind me to retrain my men when I get out of this mess.”

  Both men laughed uneasily.