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

by Joseph Nagle

  Michael sensed York’s emotions but didn’t match them. This was not the time for empathy. His words came out cold, stopping just short of callous. “Kid, this won’t be the last time you lose someone on your team; it doesn’t get easier, but it is a risk that we all face. It’s our business, and we have to accept it. Our lives do not consist of sitting in cubicles, lamenting how fat our asses are getting or gossiping about that guy in accounting banging that chick in marketing. We don’t punch time clocks or play office politics, and we certainly don’t fight rush hour traffic. Death is a part of our lives. Focus on the mission: it will help. Mourn your men when we make it out of this.” Michael may have said what he needed to say to York, but he was having a hard time believing his own advice. Sonia was out there—somewhere. She was scared, and he was petrified.

  If we make it out of this, thought York. Instead, he only nodded at the diatribe and started to understand why Michael had needed that drink. Promising himself that he wouldn’t end up like that—that he would be different—he swallowed hard and continued from where he had left off. “The extraction team was a setup. Three Blackhawks with full crews got us out of there, but the fuckers killed those of us that were still alive! They threw my men out of the goddamn choppers like sacks of potatoes!”

  If this affected Michael, he didn’t show it. He kept his focus on the laptop in front of him, but he did see the driver eyeball the men in his rearview mirror through the thick Plexiglas divider.

  Seeing this, Michael glared slightly at York. York understood the silent message and took a breath, lowered his voice, and finished. “They wanted the flash drive and my map book. Somehow they knew I had them.”

  “They were monitoring your communications, kid,” Michael interjected matter-of-factly. “They were hired guns. Mercenaries for the Order.”

  “The Order? Who the hell are they?”

  It was time to tell him. “York, you remember three years ago when we first crossed paths?”

  “Sure,” answered York with no semblance of being humble. “How can I forget? I saved your life—twice.”

  Michael smiled, but continued, “Then you also remember that three years ago, Iran’s ayatollah was assassinated, and the pope was the next target. The killings were made to look like the CIA was behind the ayatollah’s murder and that killing the pope was to appear as retaliation by Iran. It was meant to draw both Iran and the US into war. It was designed to replace both the ayatollah and the pope with pawns.”

  “Pawns that belonged to the Order?” asked York.

  “Correct.” Michael said. “The pope survived the attack—”

  “And Iran still launched their missiles,” interrupted York.

  Without skipping a beat and ignoring the interruption, Michael finished, “—and the Order launched Iran’s nuclear missiles. It wasn’t Iran that ordered the attack; the Order had the launch codes and used them by overriding Iran’s central missile command. As you recall, we were able to get control of them; most of the missiles fell without consequence into the Atlantic—all except for one.”

  York remembered. One missile had made it into US airspace but fell harmlessly (relatively speaking) into the uninhabited desert eighty miles outside of Las Vegas.

  Michael was still speaking, “Kid, the Order was defeated, and a number of their leaders were removed from the picture, but the Order didn’t disappear—far from it. This is an organization whose roots can be traced to the first century. Their only goal is to infiltrate governments with their own people; to have complete control of all economic, political, and military aspects of society.”

  “So you think that the Order is behind this, that they’ve resurfaced?”

  “It’s not what I think, it’s what I know,” said Michael as he turned the laptop around to show York.

  He had seen the files before, back in the cave in Afghanistan. The data he now stared at was the same, but he still had a hard time digesting it. He asked Michael the same question that he had asked Captain Scott back in the cave. “Doc, what does it mean?”

  Michael reached over and pointed at one of the opened files on the laptop. “See these? These are purchase orders and invoices for aluminum centrifuges. And these ones here are shipping and transportation bills of lading to ship them from Russia to Afghanistan on an Antonov. This one here is for the jet fuel used by the cargo plane. Here is the manifest for the shipment.” Michael moved one of the open files out of the way to show another window with what was clearly a manifest and flight plan.

  “Crap, Doc: centrifuges? You mean to enrich plutonium.” It wasn’t a question; York knew enough about munitions to know what was most critical in making a nuclear bomb.

  “Correct, kid; it looks like al-Qaeda is trying to make a nuke. These invoices make that pretty straightforward. It would appear that they are pretty close to completing their mission. Take a look at the flight manifest.”

  Leaning in, York saw that the flight was planned to leave Russia in two days.

  “There’s still time, Doc! We can stop this!” York paused; a moment of clarity hit him. “That’s why you tapped into the CIA’s database, isn’t it? You wanted them to see this, didn’t you?”

  Michael didn’t answer; instead, he tapped a few keys on the keyboard. All of the opened files disappeared, except for one. He showed it to York and said, “What do you make of this?”

  “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” said York with a bit of trepidation.

  “York, that is the blueprint for a TBA-480 high-voltage firing block—the firing block for a nuclear weapon. It is exactly what you think it is.”

  “Holy shit! How the hell did they get that? Who would give al-Qaeda the ability to put together a nuclear weapon?”

  “We did.” Michael’s response was pithy but had the effect of an eloquently penned diatribe.

  York sat back and digested what he had heard. The information on the screen implied that he and Michael were the ones responsible. But the way Michael had said it—we did—York knew there was more behind it.

  Before he could ask one of the numerous questions swirling in his head, the cab came to a halt, and the driver opened the small window built into the Plexiglas divider. “Belém Tower. Twenty-three euros.”

  They paid the driver and left the cab.

  Fifty meters behind the cab, another Mercedes 190E—a second cab—was dropping off its passenger, too.

  Charney stepped out onto the boardwalk that straddled the side of the Tagus River. Even though he stood near fresh waters, the cool breeze was salted and gently brushed across his cheeks. A bit of his hair fell out of place and across his right eye. Tucking it back into place, but never taking his gaze from the two men, he enjoyed the smell of the pungent, trimethylamine-filled air—some fishermen were nearby stretching out their seine, no doubt exacerbating the smell of dead fish.

  He liked it.

  The aroma was strong, landing first on his taste buds, then aided and amplified by his nose. It was like a shot of adrenaline making him feel more alive.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a nearly empty pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, he inhaled and watched as the two men walked through the front gate of the tower.

  It was time to wait.

  Nearby was a bench upon which sat a fairly attractive young girl. Smiling, he walked over and admired the length of her sinewy legs as he sat beside her.

  She looked at the stranger, happy to see how handsome he was—even with the slightly discolored nose. She smiled, too.

  He saw her eye his injury and motioned toward it, remarking, “I was boxing earlier today for exercise—I wasn’t fast enough.” And then he smiled again while holding out his hand. “Cigarette?” Charney smoothly offered to the accepting young woman.

  Thanking him bashfully, she pulled out his last one and put the filter to her full, sultry lips; Charney already had a lit match at its tip.

  It’s turning out to be a splendid day, he thought.

 
; CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  LISTENING IN

  CIA HQ—LANGLEY, VA

  It was late at Langley; night had arrived long ago, but no one had left for the day.

  Far from it.

  The room was awash with movement and the frazzled energy that comes when a clear direction cannot be found.

  The section chief sat in his office and gazed out at his team. Soundproof when the office door was pulled shut, the entire front wall was made of glass. Unfrosted and clear as placid water, he could see everything unabated.

  The men and women of his section looked tired and worn. Many had pulled their ties loose and removed their jackets. Sleeves were rolled up. Even most of the women had let their sensibilities wane and had unbuttoned their blouses to find even the remotest bit of comfort. The room was stifling and increasingly humid from body heat and all the electronic devices.

  A few of the darker-complexioned men already wore unkempt cheeks and chins from the reappearing shadow of facial hair.

  Well past closing time, Langley was no different than any other corporation with respect to the management of the buildings and facilities. After 5:00, the central air shut down, no longer having the mission to provide comfort, but to conserve energy use and taxpayer dollars.

  Everyone had a budget to monitor and, these days, a green attitude—the CIA, too.

  The section chief watched as his people worked to find Dr. Michael Sterling. Their efforts, thus far, had been in vain, but he was, nonetheless, impressed at their commitment.

  They wouldn’t find him unless by some accident or blind luck. The Doc was just too good. His boss—their boss—was the best. The only way he would be found is if he wanted to be found.

  Almost prophetically, the air out in the bullpen—as the sunken space where the team worked was called—became electric.

  Bodies began to move faster; voices climbed higher in both sound and octave. He couldn’t hear them, but he could see it.

  He watched as his young apprentice and second-in-command, Jorge Garrido, jumped to his feet and pointed simultaneously in two directions. He was directing the underlings with obvious vigor and confidence.

  Those that had been on their feet already moved faster, while the ones that had been, moments ago, sunken and slumped in their chairs now sat erect, upright, and focused on their respective terminals.

  Moving away from the glass wall, the section chief headed to his office door. Before he could put his hand on its handle, Jorge turned and caught his attention. Jorge pursed his lips tightly together and nodded once.

  They had him.

  The section chief furrowed his brow. There was no way this was kosher.

  In the bullpen, Jorge was standing over the shoulder of one of the junior, but seasoned, officers. “He’s in the secured database!” What the hell, Doc? “Ping the IP, get online with CORe, and feed the location into LACROSSE; get a backup KH online. And someone find me the source of that IP! I want a name, address, phone number, and all known aliases of its user! I want to know what the source was doing today, yesterday, and what he has planned for tomorrow!” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir. Doing it now. IP trace effective. Localized the signal; it’s coming from Portugal. A few more seconds, and I should have the exact location.”

  “Seconds are a luxury we don’t have, Jason. I need it now,” barked Jorge. “Get me the source!”

  “Yes, sir. Got it, sir.”

  Jorge gave the young man’s shoulder a slight squeeze of appreciation; it was in direct contrast to his chief’s methods of leadership. “Good,” replied Jorge as he pointed to a middle-aged woman to his right. “Ms. Samantha, when it’s in LACROSSE, use it. Get it on-screen.”

  Jorge pointed to another officer; this one was a new trainee, fresh from the Farm. “You”—he didn’t know his name yet—“position AEHF-3 over Portugal; paint the coordinates. See if you can get me sound.”

  “Got it,” was the slightly insubordinate reply. Jorge cocked an odd glare the young man’s way, but he didn’t seem to notice. Ms. Samantha did, however. He would just have to critique and retrain—C&R—the young man later.

  Ms. Samantha—Samantha L. Hightower—returned her focus to her own task. Nearing her retirement, she was content to stay behind a desk as her career waned. Once a young and rather striking field officer, her time in the Clandestine Services came to a screeching halt the moment a stiletto had grazed from the corner of her left eye and diagonally down to the right side of her chin.

  The Company gave her the best medical attention possible; after a number of cosmetic surgical repairs, the long scar had faded to nothing more than a faint, long line. Age and career had taken its toll, but her beauty was still apparent.

  The wound had been horrific, but what she had done to the Algerian attacker had been worse. He had survived her fury, but had been separated violently of his manhood. Ms. Samantha—as she was affectionately known as the matriarch of the section—had disarmed the man of the same stiletto that sliced open her face and had used it to make him a eunuch.

  She tucked a wisp of her thinning, blond hair behind her ear and shouted out to Jorge. “LACROSSE in place, CORe confirms, Mr. Garrido,” she said with some obvious emphasis as she leaned toward the slightly insolent young officer. “GPS coordinates input, magnifying now. On-screen in five, four, three…now.”

  Jorge had no doubt, as he offered Ms. Samantha a smile, that she had already completed the task well before his command had exited his lips. Silently, he thanked her for her own bit of ad hoc C&R on the young man.

  All eyes moved to the front of the room.

  On the screen, a very clear satellite image of Lisbon materialized. All at once, everyone seemed to hold their breath; the room basked in what would be a short-lived silence. The entire bullpen was staring at a birds-eye view of the top of an old silver Mercedes—Michael’s cab.

  The section chief could hardly believe it to be possible, but the message was clear: Dr. Michael Sterling was back on the grid.

  From different vantage points in the command center, the two men watched the cab come to a halt at an open plaza adorned with a tall, marble structure.

  The section chief banged on the glass, drawing Jorge’s attention. He pointed to his ears; Jorge nodded in understanding, and then shouted out, “Where’s my audio, SATCON?!”

  “Sir, AEHF won’t come online.”

  “Malfunction?”

  “No, sir. We are locked out; our control has been overridden.”

  “What the hell do you mean, overridden?!” Jorge’s voice rose more than one octave, and he nearly sprinted over to the SATCON officer.

  Sensing her young superior might be losing his control, Ms. Samantha caught Jorge briefly by the eyes and gave him a look that said get your shit together.

  Instantly, he slowed both his stride and his thoughts.

  The Advanced Extremely High Frequency (AEHF) is a joint-service satellite communications system that has ten times the capacity of the aging Milstar constellation of satellites. It is jam-proof and consists of four highly classified satellites. AEHF-3 was the third launched of four satellites, and the CIA had the highest priority for its use.

  This shouldn’t be happening.

  “Get on the horn with CORe at NORAD, Ms. Samantha; get me some answers. I need that satellite online!”

  Ms. Samantha nodded, but she already had CORe’s on-duty commander—an Air Force major—on the phone.

  The section chief didn’t like the way things were adding up; going back to his desk, he was more than aware that not one speck of this felt, smelled, or tasted right. Michael was up to something.

  The section chief tapped commands into his laptop and soon saw what Garrido and everyone else did. Files showing invoices, purchase orders, and flight plans streamed across his monitor. He could hardly believe what he was looking at.

  And then he saw it.

  He nearly tumbled out of his chair. Michael had just accessed the CIA’s central data r
epository for black operations. Only those at the deputy director level and with Eyes Only clearance could be in there. This shouldn’t be happening.

  Across his screen he watched as Michael tapped into a long-dead mission. Out in the bullpen, all eyes were cemented on the large screen at the front of the room.

  Most were on their feet; some eyed one another uneasily. All thought the same thing—is this true?

  Grabbing his desk firmly, the section chief righted his balance and pulled himself out of his chair. He was frantic. Shouting for Jorge, his mind was in too great of a flurry to remember that the young officer couldn’t hear him through the soundproof glass wall.

  The section chief sprinted to the door and bolted through it, screaming. His face had turned a nasty shade of crimson. “Shut it down! Shut it down now, goddamn it! All of it!”

  Jorge was still on his feet, dumbstruck, both at the shouts coming from his boss and by the Black Operation that appeared larger than life on the screen at the front of the room. But he was trained enough to know certain orders are not to be belayed. Without sitting, he slammed the tips of his fingers deep into the keyboard, commanding the system to be shut off.

  Yelling out to those closest to him, they obeyed his orders and, too, shut down their systems.

  “Out,” continued the section chief, “everyone, get out! Go home until further notice! You are to speak with no one about what you just saw! Mr. Garrido, you stay!”

  Quickly the room emptied except for the surprised underling.

  Jorge wasn’t sure if he should say anything; he had never seen his boss like this. But he asked anyway. “Sir, what’s going on? Why the fire drill?”

  “Mr. Garrido, is the trace of the source complete?” The section chief straightened his tie and smoothed out his sleeves in an effort to purposely gather his composure.