The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (14 page)

Michael was drawn to them. One of them, an older woman, seemed to be crying; a man was comforting her.

As he neared the group, what he saw on the television sent a jolt through him. Senator Door, the head of the Intelligence Oversight Committee, and the president of France had been killed. Even more shocking was that Notre Dame was destroyed.

The news footage was aerial; some was on the ground. Where there should have been a magnificent, centuries-old work of intense gothic architecture was rubble. Dazed, dust-covered faces of the injured, some bloodied, cast confused gazes that stared through reality. Medical personnel and police were everywhere, assisting those that still lived and ignoring those that were already dead. The two CNN anchormen appeared frazzled, if not overwhelmed by the magnitude of what they were reporting. Across the bottom of the screen, the headline flashed, stating that all Paris landmarks would be closed indefinitely.

It was at that moment that the BlackBerry attached to his belt vibrated. Looking at it, he saw that an emergency meeting was being called for two hours from now.

Out of habit, Michael called out to the bartender, “Scotch, neat.”

The bartender slid a short glass in front of Michael and asked, “Black Label okay?”

Without taking his eyes off the screen, Michael responded, “Yeah, and make it a double.”

The bartender poured, and Michael downed the drink in one motion.

“Shall I pour you another, sir?”

Michael looked at the glass and said, “No. How much do I owe you?”

“Thirty-five.”

Michael had already pulled out his money clip when the bartender told him how much the shots had cost. He paused in disbelief for a moment. Prices certainly were not as much in Denver. Michael threw two twenties on the bar and said, “You want my next born, too?”

The bartender gave Michael an odd look.

“Just a joke,” Michael said. “Keep the change.”

Forgetting the bathroom, Michael returned to the table. Their meals had arrived, but Sonia wasn’t touching hers.

“You’ll never believe what just happened in France,” Michael said as he sat. “Notre Dame was destroyed in an explosion, and Senator Door was inside! I’ve been called to Langley.”

Sonia just sat. She didn’t move or respond, only cast a stony gaze across the small table at Michael.

“What?” Michael’s question was like that of a child having been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“You know
what
, Michael.”

“Sonia, what’s with the evil eye—why are you so upset?”

“Goddamn it, Michael. Don’t bat your pretty blue eyes at me. You know damn well what! I saw you down a drink at the bar!”

She saw that?

Sonia stood up to leave.

“Wait,” said Michael. “You don’t have to leave.”

Sonia looked down at her husband; there was a small tear in her eye. “Michael, you have a problem, and you need to fix it. I don’t have time for this right now; I need to get back to the hospital. Give me your keys.”

“My keys? Why? Let me drive you back.”

“No, Michael!” The sharpness in her tone rose a few levels, and some of the other patrons took notice. But Sonia didn’t care. If Michael had learned one thing about her, it’s that her convictions couldn’t be halted once started. She was about to unleash some heat on him, and there was nothing he could do.

“You are in no shape to drive! Look at you—your eyes are red, your pupils dilated, and you look like you haven’t slept in days. Take a cab home, Michael.”

Sonia’s pain had flashed into anger. This wasn’t good. He knew better than to argue with her—something about a woman being scorned told him not to. He sheepishly handed his keys to her. She snatched them from him and, before leaving, she shot him a pained look; it told of her worry for him, and it told him that she was right.

He could jump out of planes at high or low altitudes, rappel the face of any cliff, and put a bullet into the forehead of a man at one hundred yards while in a dead sprint, but this—this he couldn’t do: he couldn’t put down a bottle of wine. Michael closed his eyes and tilted his head back. For a moment, he stayed there, contemplating what was next.

Opening his eyes and casting them at his plate, Michael just sat and stared at his fish: his appetite was suddenly lost. The waiter was standing over him; Michael hadn’t noticed the man’s discreet approach. Clearing his throat, the waiter announced his presence and offered Michael the leather-bound check. Apparently, the waiter had seen more than his share of married couples arguing and was well versed in the telltale signs that a meal was over.

Michael took the bill and offered the waiter a sheepish smile. Opening the bill, he eyed the amount: $225.37, tip not included.

Just great
, thought Michael as he reached for his wallet.
I just got in a public fight with my wife, realized that I am a borderline alcoholic, and all I got for three hundred bucks was a double shot of Johnnie Walker Black.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

1725 RHODE ISLAND AVE
NW WASHINGTON, DC

T
he Cathedral of St. Matthew stands Romanesque between Connecticut and Rhode Island Avenues, just off 17th Avenue in Washington, DC. It was still early in the afternoon, and the church was nearly empty. In one of its darkened corners, an old man hunched over a broom and slowly swept a section of its marble floors. As he puttered along, he paid no attention to the powerful man that knelt in the third row of the church’s pews. Over the years, he had borne witness to many of the elite. To him, all men that prayed there were the same.

Senator Matthew Faust’s knees were firmly pressed into the padded top of the pew’s wooden kneeler; he was quietly murmuring his prayer. His eyes were shut tightly, and his thoughts focused on his conversation with God. He was nearly finished when his chief of staff abruptly interrupted him.

Justine Miller had graduated magna cum laude with a master’s degree in public policy from Harvard’s John F. Kennedy School of Government. She was a fast riser, ambitious and rather bright. She knew that when the senator was praying, which he did daily, that he was not to be interrupted under any circumstances. However, this time, she felt the situation warranted an exception.

She could hardly contain her excitement and felt awful, albeit for only a moment, that the situation had excited her. Justine touched the senator on his left shoulder and, in a loud voice that drew the ire of the old man sweeping, said, “Senator Faust!”

He didn’t respond.

Senator Faust’s eyes remained closed, and his mouth still moved in prayer. He would finish; no one came between him and his conversations with God—no one. Immediately, Justine recognized her mistake and was instantly sorry for her impetuous behavior, but she knew that what she would say would pave the way for forgiveness.

Making the sign of the cross and kissing his rosary, the senator quietly rose and dropped the cross into the inside breast pocket of his impeccably tailored, hand-cut suit. Turning toward his chief of staff, he said, “Justine, this had better be good.”

It was.

Justine was a beautiful woman. A bit plump, perhaps, but still beautiful. Her body was shaped the way a woman’s should be and was draped by long red hair that was always pulled tightly back in the classic strong-woman style. When she let it flow, it draped down to the middle of her back in long, spiral curls. As was customary with red-haired women, Justine’s skin was a porcelain white that, interestingly enough, was bare of the freckles that were the norm with redheads.

Her cheeks were now flushed crimson, a color that stood out starkly against her pale skin. She could feel her temperature begin to rise as she silently wondered if she should have waited to tell the senator the news.

“Sir, I am sorry, but this couldn’t wait. You need to know right away.” She stopped speaking for a moment, gathered her strength, and flatly stated, “Senator Door is dead.”

So quickly?

Senator Faust could hardly believe that the plan had taken shape so fast. The Iranians had been repaid with interest, and now Door was dead.

Things were certainly looking better.

He needed to react accordingly.

Senator Faust slowly tilted his head backward, but only slightly. He let Justine’s words sink in, taking the time to dissect what she had just said. The thief had been successful. He knew he should have shown some visible sign of emotion or concern, but he didn’t. In just a few, brief moments, Senator Faust calculated his next steps.

“When?” His question was pithy.

“About ten minutes ago,” replied Justine, and then she added, “in Paris. There was an explosion at Notre Dame; she was there with the president of France—he’s dead too, along with a large number of tourists and visitors.”

Senator Faust scratched at his cheek, thinking. He asked, “Terrorist attack?”

Justine smiled; she knew the game. “No word yet, Senator. The news out of France is coming in fragments.”

Looking at his chief of staff, Senator Faust commanded, “Get a press conference together within the hour, Justine. Get Senator Door’s husband on the phone. I want to personally offer my condolences. Then get Senator Steinman on the phone. No, scratch that. I will speak with Senator Door’s husband in the car. You will take me straight to Senator Steinman; I don’t care where he is, just get me there. Understood?”

Justine’s lips were curled in a wicked smile. “Sir, I have already scheduled the press conference. It will be at CNN’s studios. They are expecting us in less than an hour. Your car is waiting outside, and I have spoken with Senator Steinman. He is waiting for you at the University Club.”

Justine handed a phone to her boss and said, “Sir, Senator Door’s husband is on the line, just un-mute the phone when you are ready.”

Senator Faust reached out and took the phone. He eyed his chief of staff much like a proud father would his child; perhaps with something a little more. He said, “Justine, I knew there was a reason I hired you.” He was about to unmute the call, but before he did, he added one last thing. “But if you ever interrupt my prayer again, I will fire your ass faster than you can blink.”

Quickly, he brushed past Justine, whose face was even redder, and said into the phone, “Francis, I just heard the news, I cannot begin to tell you what a tremendous loss this is for both your family and our country…”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

AULNAY-SOUS-BOIS
PARIS, FRANCE

C
harney could still hear sirens in the distance. He smiled at the outcome of his work. It had been brilliant.

The world was in shock.

He turned his eyes toward the bed.

Jeannette had long ago fallen asleep. Charney could not. Instead, he sat in the corner of his room and stared at the outline of her silhouette as her chest rhythmically expanded and contracted from her nocturnal breathing. He was transfixed; his eyes followed the rise and fall as the roundness of her femininity held his gaze. She was nearly as perfect as her sister. He imagined that it was his Annette that warmed his bed. Every so often, and on the rarest of occasions, his imagination would feel real for a brief moment. This was one of those moments; it felt like it was Annette on his bed.

Closing his eyes, he held onto that feeling, knowing that it would quickly abate.

Annette.
He tilted his head backward, chasing his dream to the ceiling, but all he could do was stare. It was already gone.

Disturbing his thoughts, a chime filled the air and roused Jeanette from her sleep.

“Were you expecting someone?” she asked.

He lowered his eyes to where she lay in the bed. “Yes,” he replied, his voice was low and with an emotion that didn’t seem to belong. He wasn’t sure with whom he spoke. The two women were blending as one. He loved Jeannette; that much was certainly true. He just didn’t know if it was her or the proxy that she served as.

He stood and put on an undershirt. Walking to the bedside, he put his hand on her stomach and leaned in to kiss her. She smiled and said, “Go and take care of your business, then come back to bed.” He kissed her once more, this time on her forehead, then the tip of her nose, and finally on her lips.

Jeannette smiled, caressed the side of his face, and then curled up onto her side.

Charney walked to a panel on his wall; next to it was a small LCD screen that displayed the man who had just rung his bell. Without saying a word, Charney buzzed him into the building and walked to his front door.

Charney had barely made it to his door when a series of quick knocks echoed through the foyer. Opening the door, the two looked at one another for a moment. Charney instructed, “Follow me,
si’l vous plait
.”

He led the man to a small office just off the foyer. Before he could close the door for more privacy, the man barked, “Let me see it.”

Charney eyed his visitor curiously, more so to size him up. The man was short but quite stout. He was clearly capable. Under his left arm, Charney could make out the bulk of his pistol; under his right arm, he saw the same telltale sign. The man was clearly a professional. But so was Charney. He hated this part of the deal. Everyone was nervous but acted as if they weren’t. One wrong word or misunderstanding could lead to a knife in the back or a bullet to the forehead.