The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (13 page)

He had been named the History Thief by the press; it was a moniker he thoroughly enjoyed.

He had a place reserved for his masterpiece on the fourth floor. There, a pedestal had been carved of Parian marble, the same marble that covered the entire floor of his living quarters. The pedestal stood empty awaiting his last theft. Placed neatly around the pedestal, and carved from the same type of Parian marble, but much older, were items that took Charney nearly ten years of painstaking work to acquire: a large wing, two arms, and the beautiful head of a woman; they were priceless artifacts for which the Louvre would pay a king’s ransom, and they were thought to have been destroyed long ago. Missing was the body to which the pieces belonged—a body that was one of the Louvre’s most prized possessions.

The third-century BC Winged Victory of Samothrace, a sculpture of the goddess Nike, adorned a pulpit—exactly like the one Charney had recreated in his home—and was a prominent and major focal piece for the world famous museum.

Often, Charney would visit the Louvre and stare at the statue and be reminded of Annette. It had been her favorite. Over time, the sculpture had become her. Stealing it would be his final illicit act, a gift to her and his own masterpiece.

When Annette was killed, he dreamed that somehow the statue had absorbed her spirit. All he could see was Annette when he stared at Samothrace. It had to be his. When his mission was complete, it would stand in his home, reunited with the missing pieces that he had painstakingly acquired, her wings and arms spread open and wide. He dreamed that she was coming to him, inviting him into her embrace.

Shaking the thought from his mind, Charney reached down and felt the hard outline of his current success as it pressed into his side and through the sack he carried. He wished that the Crown of Thorns could be added to his collection, but it would not be. His profession—and lifestyle—required the occasional injection of income, and the theft of the crown would add five million US dollars to his Swiss offshore account.

Over the years, his benefactor had given him a number of jobs. The two had never met, and Charney knew nothing about the man—he wasn’t even sure if he
was
a man. But the benefactor always paid, and his taste in art and artifacts was beyond admirable.

The five million he would earn did not include the five hundred thousand dollar advance needed to gather the materials to do the job; it was an amount higher than normal. But this job had been different; the benefactor wanted the American killed.

The death of France’s president was an added benefit, a punishment for Annette. He would have killed the man for free.

The work undertaken to steal the Crown of Thorns had been dangerous and time-consuming, and it was just the first of two jobs. Stealing the crown had been a nearly impossible task, and the next job was nearly as challenging. It would pay another five million dollars. When both jobs were finished, he would never need to steal for another man again. He would focus his efforts only on his masterpiece, and then he would retire.

Charney climbed into the waiting elevator that would take him to his third-floor living quarters. The doors opened, and instantly he knew that he wasn’t alone. His senses were on fire, lit by smells in the air foreign to his personal space.

Slowly, he moved across the floor of his marble foyer with long, purposeful strides. He lowered himself closer to the oversized, semitranslucent, pure-white tiles and gazed across them, looking for anything that didn’t belong, a sign of the person that had boldly invaded his home.

Charney reminded himself that he would have to have a chat with the dirty old man that used his stoop as a bedroom.

From one room to the next he moved. Nothing was out of place; nothing told him of who was in his home or where they were. Moving closer to the wall, he flipped one of the six switches on a panel. Looking no different than the switches for lights, there was a similar panel installed in most of the rooms in his home.

Instantly, all of the doors and windows were bolted shut; no key could unlock them. Simultaneously, a barely perceptible whisk permeated the air and was followed by a thin layer of ubiquitous smoke over the floor. Charney crouched low and waited. He was standing in an open area that was exactly in the center of the third floor. He had designed the floor plan himself, so that this very spot would allow him to see down every hall of his home.

Patiently, he waited. He knew that it wouldn’t take long.

Scanning left, right, behind, and in front of him, what he looked for soon appeared.

Down the hall—the one that led into his bedroom—the thin layer of smoke began to ripple slightly. Everywhere else it hovered flat. Someone’s movements, their breathing perhaps, had caused the thin layer of smoke to undulate and give away his or her location.

He smiled and stood.

Instead of heading toward the bedroom, Charney went the opposite way. Part of his home’s custom design had been to install false walls that he could walk behind. Meant to be used for emergencies, he could use them to get into his bedroom without using the hallway.

Deftly, he secreted through the passageways and was soon in his own bedroom closet. Looking through the slats in the closet door, he saw atop his bed the naked curves of his intruder: the body belonged to Jeannette. She was nearly as beautiful as her sister. Their love for Annette, and the dark chasm that her death created, had bonded them together. In her, he saw Annette, and in him, she saw the only thing left behind when her sister was killed. Annette was their mutual connection, and they both knew it; they both wanted it this way. When their bodies intertwined and the beat of their hearts rose, it made missing her easier. It made them both feel as if Annette were not dead, if only for a moment.

“Are you going to stay in there all night, or do you plan on watching me make love to myself?” Her voice was sultry and seductive, a trait that she shared with her dead sister. Whenever she spoke, especially in bed, Charney would often close his eyes and imagine that it was Annette’s voice that he heard.

Without speaking, he stared at her naked body. He traced his eyes over her dark hair and followed it to her bare shoulders. Mentally, he drew a line down her arm and over the curve of her hips. She was even shaped like Annette.

Opening the closet door, he emerged. He was naked, too.

“How did you know I was in there?”

“She told me of your passageways. Besides, I could hear your breathing getting heavier.” She almost purred as she spoke; it had been the same with Annette.

Charney closed his eyes and saw Annette’s smile; he imagined the voice to be hers. Opening his eyes, he walked closer to his bed; her arms were outstretched for him as he said, “I seem to have forgotten. This was her home, too.”

The two of them never said Annette’s name out loud; it was an unspoken rule that they both simply understood and diligently followed. It was too painful otherwise, or perhaps it would make it feel wrong.

Charney lowered himself into Jeannette’s arms and closed his eyes, seeing only Annette’s face. Inhaling deeply, he let the smells of her perfume invade his senses. It was the same smell that he had encountered when his elevator door had opened a few minutes ago. It was the same smell of the perfume that Annette always wore.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CITRONELLE
RESTAURANT 3000
M STREET NW
WASHINGTON, DC

M
ichael toyed mindlessly with the edge of his wine glass. He had switched from white to red—from a Chardonnay to a Malbec—in anticipation of the meal to come. He had already ordered for both of them: a colorful tomato tart for her and the marinated sablefish for him. Next to her place setting was a chilled 2003 Les Blanchots Chablis that awaited the touch of her narrow lips. The Chablis was her favorite, but he was slightly worried that the maître d’ had poured the glass too soon.

Less than an hour ago, while Michael worked in his home office, Sonia had called. She had a hint of excitement in her voice. A patient of hers had cancelled at the last minute and freed up her schedule for the next two hours. She didn’t have to beg Michael to get him to meet her at Citronelle, Georgetown’s newest and hottest restaurant. He ran out of the house but had to run back to grab a suit coat. Citronelle required all gentlemen to be in proper attire; they will not seat you otherwise.

It was well past the lunch hour, nearly two o’clock, and the dining room was full: a testament to the chef’s reputation.

Sitting alone and in the corner, the restaurant was darkened and intimate. Michael could feel the anticipation as he waited for his wife.

Michael dared not take a sip of his wine; he wanted to show his wife that he had control of his drinking. The deep red of the Malbec looked inviting, and its full-bodied smell caught his attention. His mouth watered as he checked his watch. His left knee bounced nervously under the white-clothed table.

A sharp set of taps on the window next to him caught him by surprise. Outside, and on the other side of the window, was Sonia; she was smiling widely as he waved back. Michael was always impressed at the amount of energy and youth that she displayed.

For a woman that worked as hard as she did, the effects never showed physically on her. Her eyes were almond-shaped and inviting; they had not even the subtlest signs of the wrinkling that attacks their corners with age. Her jet-black hair had been recently cut into an A-line. Michael didn’t know what that meant, but he was impressed with the outcome. Michael knew that he was with a woman whose trim appearance and exquisitely shaped body defied logic.

From across the room, he watched as she walked toward him—glided, really. They had been together for more than seventeen years, and her beauty had become only more radiant with time. He watched almost trance-like as her hips gracefully and invitingly undulated from side to side. Her strides spoke of strength and ability, all of which was true.

Even with a tough schedule, Sonia always found the time to maintain her toned physique. She rose early to do yoga while he still slept, and she ran nearly every day. No matter the time, Sonia always found a way to run. And her runs were not those ineffective housewife-like trots that lacked both intensity and form that one typically sees. No, Sonia ran. Her gait was strong and impressive, her strength obvious. When she ran, she looked like a bounding gazelle.

Michael knew that he was a lucky man.

As she neared the table, Michael stood to greet his wife; she stood on her toes as he bent down to kiss her. The smell of her perfume wafted into his nostrils; it was his favorite, and it reminded him, for a moment, of when they first met.

“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice. I barely made the train,” she said.

“What kind of husband would I be if I hadn’t? Besides, I needed an excuse to get away from my work. I am drowned in it.”

“I thought as much,” she said as she eyed the glasses of wine. “It looks like you started without me, Michael.” There was a hint of disappointment in her voice, or maybe it was a slight twinge of disgust.

They both sat, and Michael, ignoring the implication of her comment, said, “I know that you need to get back to the hospital, so I ordered for us. I got you that tart you like.”

Sonia’s eyes lit up, and she happily replied with a small, excited clap. “You must have read my mind! That’s the only thing that I wanted.” She reached over to the Chablis and pushed it away. “But I can’t have the wine—I have to head back to the hospital afterward.”

With a bit of defensiveness in his voice, Michael pushed the glass back and said, “One glass won’t hurt. You won’t be back for over an hour.”

Sonia’s eyes took on a more solemn gaze. She stated matter-of-factly, “Michael, I can’t, and you shouldn’t either.”

“Sonia, please don’t start. Not today.”

Michael’s left hand was draped across the table. Sonia laid her right hand on top, and said, “I am worried about you. You’ve been drinking a lot more since we moved out here. You have been working ridiculous hours. Michael, I want you to cut back—on both.”

When a man has been with the same woman for seventeen years, more than ten of which had been in marriage, he should know better than to disagree with his wife. It was typically, if not always, a futile prospect—especially when she was right. Michael knew that he was drinking more lately, but felt that he had control of it. He could count the number of times he had been drunk, truly drunk, by the number of fingers on one of his hands. He wasn’t one of those red-nosed, fat-bellied alcoholics that couldn’t live without booze and had the body and face of a man twenty years older. He was the opposite.

“Michael,” Sonia continued, “you drink every day.”

And there it was.

This wasn’t the time to argue, and so he conceded in the only way he knew how. “Sonia, I am going to use the restroom. When the waiter comes by, ask him to take away the wine and to bring me a cranberry tonic.”

He stood up and kissed her cheek; she smiled at him.

Michael walked toward the restroom, which was through the bar. In one corner, a small group of patrons and restaurant staff had gathered. They were staring up at the screen, but none said a word.