The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (15 page)

Never taking his eyes from his guest’s, Charney asked, “First, where is my money?”

The man’s face offered no emotion nor registered any signs that gave away his thoughts. Simply, he put his hand into his front pocket and calmly produced a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Charney.

“Your money was wired to your Swiss bank ten minutes ago. It is being held by the bank for final credit to your account. You may call your banker once you have given me the crown; he will verify the transfer and then, with a code word, will be authorized to release the money into your account.”

“You are American, no?” asked Charney.

The man didn’t answer.

Charney opened the paper; on it was a US Federal Reserve reference number—a series of numbers assigned to all US-initiated wire transfers—with his Swiss account number attached to it.
Ah, that would answer my question
, thought Charney. The amount was five million US dollars.

Charney looked up; the barrel of a .45-caliber Colt handgun was aimed at his forehead.
Impressive
, Charney thought.

The man coldly stated over the barrel of his pistol, “Now, give me the crown, and the money will be yours. You have ten seconds.”

The man pulled back on the slide of the pistol, readying it to fire.

Charney needed only five seconds instead of the gracious ten he had been granted, and quickly he handed over the crown.

With the gun still trained on Charney, the man grasped the cylindrical protective covering of the crown, studied it for a moment, and, when seemingly satisfied that it was, indeed, the Crown of Thorns, he put away his weapon.

Reaching into the other breast pocket of his suit, the man pulled out an envelope, placed it neatly on the desk, and said, “Your instructions for your next assignment are inside.” Never taking his eyes off of Charney, he flatly stated, “The code word to give the banker is ‘shroud.’”

Turning, he left.

Charney watched as the man let himself out. He then picked up the envelope and gazed at its contents: a plane ticket, a map, and a photo—his next assignment. Smiling, he said out loud, “I should have guessed: Americans and their sense of humor.”

The photo that sat atop the desk was a recently snapped shot of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. Next to it was the map, which outlined the route to Turin, Italy: the location of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, the home of of Turin.

Gathering what he needed, he kissed Jeanette on her forehead as she lay sleeping and set a note on the bed stand beside her.

He quietly left to complete his next assignment.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

NEAR KOFE SOFAID
AFGHANISTAN

S
SG York was afraid.

The two Green Berets fell fast from the Blackhawk; they were seconds from death.

The falling bodies of SSG York and CPT Scott sliced through the molecules of air at near-terminal velocity and without regard for the ground below. York’s eyes were nearly forced shut as the air slapped at his face. He struggled to keep hold of CPT Scott; tumbling, the men plummeted.

Peering through the small slits of his barely opened eyes, York saw the fast-approaching ground. With his right hand, he fumbled across the webbing of the chute’s harness. Finding what he was looking for, he yanked on the release handle and braced for the force of the opening chute. He viciously squeezed CPT Scott’s body as tightly as possible, knowing that the force created by the opening chute may very well cause him to lose his grip on the unconscious man.

There was no snapping force.

There was no slowing down.

York looked up and saw the chute was in a cigarette roll; it was still rolled up and tangled in its own chords. York’s scream was loud, but the roaring of the passing wind drowned out his fear and voice; he had only one chance. Squeezing his legs hard around the captain, York released his grip on the officer, holding him only with his legs. He reached up to the chute’s chords. His training took over. Quickly, York reeled in the chute, bundled it as quickly as possible, and then threw it off to his side. He could feel CPT Scott’s body slipping. The emergency maneuver was a last resort and its efficacy unknown, but it was his only chance.

The ground was racing up fast to meet the two men; their bodies were being whipped wildly by their fall. The moment York had thrown the chute away from his body, he had reached down to grab the captain. It was at this same moment that the captain’s eyes opened; simultaneously, the chute’s canopy caught enough air to blast open and wickedly jolt both men.

CPT Scott wanted to shout at the confusion that met his mind, but the vise-grip that York had around his torso wouldn’t allow it. Within moments of the chute’s opening, the two men slammed into the hard-packed earth and spilled apart.

York’s breath was gone, forced out upon impact. The world around him started to fade to an inky, purple-black.

The two men were unconscious. The sun traveled a lazy path overhead. On a nearby cliff, a small man squatted and watched. A homemade cigarette hung off his lower lip. He smoked it without even touching it. He wondered if the two men below were dead. Patiently, he waited.

York’s eyes fluttered; he felt the sun baking his face. He tried to take in a deep breath; his lungs demanded air. He willed them to relax enough to let more inside. York bellowed out a long and loud groan as he coughed for oxygen; his mind slowly drifted from inability to full comprehension.

Rolling over, York gagged violently. Afghani dust was caked to his lips. He wiped it away. He looked toward the body of his captain. He looked dead. Fumbling somewhat, he found the quick-release straps of the chute and released himself from the billowing canopy.

Pushing himself to his hands and knees, York crawled to the unconscious man and rolled him onto his back. There were no visible signs of injury other than the wet spot over his side where the bullet resided. York checked for a pulse and breathing; both were there.

“Sir! CPT Scott!” York shouted as he slapped the captain across his left cheek.

There was no response.

Quickly, York fumbled for his combat lifesaver pack and found an ammonia ampoule. Snapping it open, he shoved it under the captain’s nose. Instantly, the captain grabbed York by the wrist and shot up into a sitting position; his other hand was clamped firmly onto York’s throat.

His eyes were dazed but were quickly gaining focus. He looked left, then right, and then at York, whose face was turning a bright shade of purple.

Without letting go, CPT Scott calmly asked, “Tell me, why are we on the ground and not in the fucking Blackhawk, York? Where are the rest of the men?”

CPT Scott held on to York’s neck for one moment more before letting him go. York fell backward onto the dirt; coughing, he spat out, “Dead, sir! They’re all dead!”

The captain’s eyes shook; with a slight quiver in his voice, he repeated, “Dead? All of them—how?!”

York responded, “The rescue team, sir. They wanted the flash drive. They executed the other men and dumped them from the Blackhawks.”

“Then how come we are alive, York?” asked CPT Scott.

York’s response was to the point. “I fought back.”

Both men sat in stony silence for a moment. York broke the uneasy feeling that permeated the air and asked, “Who do you think they were?”

CPT Scott’s face showed no emotion. Gazing into the distance instead of answering York’s question, he said, “There’s a plume of black smoke over there; someone will see it. We need to get moving.”

CPT Scott rose painfully to his feet, holding onto his side. He looked over at the canopy of the chute and at York, who was removing the harness; CPT Scott realized that he wasn’t wearing one and that there wasn’t a second chute. He stood dumbfounded for a moment as he realized that York had jumped out of the Blackhawk holding him like a sack of potatoes.

CPT Scott opened his mouth to ask York about this but couldn’t utter a single sound: a truck had suddenly appeared from around a small hill; the driver slammed on the brakes, sending a cloud of thick dust into the air. An Afghani man barreled out of the truck; he had a rustic rifle pointed at the men and was shouting in Tajik. There was no time to react—in a synchronized fashion, both CPT Scott’s and SSG York’s hands shot up into the air.

The two Green Berets carefully eyed the man; both were calculating, independently of one another, his next move.

Suddenly, the man spat out recognizable words in broken English. Patting one hand to his own chest, he said, “Frend…Frend…”

He then pointed the business end of the rifle into the sky and pantomimed a helicopter while saying, “Wop, wop; boom. Wop, wop; boom.”

It took York a moment, but he understood. “Sir, I think he’s saying that he is a friend, and that he saw the helicopter crash.”

The man continued his pantomiming; pointing at the two men, he made a gesture mimicking the two men parachuting and said, “You, fall. Wop, wop.”

York put down his hands and moved closer; the Afghani man seemed uneasy. York saw this and, pointing to himself, said, “Me. Friend. Me fall, wop, wop.”

This made the Afghani happy; his mouth stretched into a broad smile that accentuated the leathered creases of his eyes and showed the crooked blackness of his teeth. He gestured to the men and to his truck.

York looked at CPT Scott who, in turn, nodded in the affirmative.

In the small truck, the three men sat shoulder to shoulder, tightly packed. York said to the Afghani, “Phone?”

The man understood and vigorously nodded his head as he quietly repeated, “Fone.”

The Afghani man drove without haste; the truck’s engine roared on straight sections of the road, and corners were not seen as obstacles as he drove around them without touching his brakes. His eyes scanned repetitively back and forth; he was clearly worried. If they ran into any local warlords or al-Qaeda, not only would they all be killed, but also every member of the man’s family.

Nearly twenty minutes had passed when the truck turned sharply up a neatly hidden dirt driveway. The man’s home typified those found in the harsh countryside. It was small with mud-caked walls and had only two rooms.

When the truck stopped, he jumped out and shouted, “Fone. Come. Fone.”

The man’s home was as sparse on the interior as the exterior was dilapidated. In the corner was a small table; atop it was a rotary phone. York ran to it, sure that there would be no dial tone, but surprised when its sound filled his ear. He looked to the captain and nodded. CPT Scott didn’t acknowledge him; he was watching the Afghani closely: he was trained not to trust him.

Without taking his eyes off the old man, CPT Scott asked, “York, who are you going to call?”

“An old friend, sir.”

York dialed the country code for the United States, not really believing that the call would go through, and then followed it with the prefix for Colorado and a number that he knew quite well.

He was surprised when he heard a ring, and even more surprised when it was answered: “CORe Center, NORAD. Secured line. CPT Williams speaking; how may I help you, sir or ma’am?”

Holy shit! Williams still works at CORe
! Even though York had just been involved in an attack by al-Qaeda, fought two men in a crashing Blackhawk, and jumped blindly into the sky with one parachute for two men, his thoughts immediately floated to an image of CPT Williams’s perfectly shaped breasts. Such is the brain of man.

“Ma’am, it’s York! Do you remember me? A few years back, we worked together at CORe.”

“Of course I do, York; how could I forget. It’s been a while, but what the hell are you doing calling me on this secured line?!”

“Ma’am, it’s an emergency. I need your help.”

“Where are you calling me from? I heard you were with Special Ops. What the hell is going on, York?”

“There’s no time to explain. I need you to call someone for me; I need it done now!”

CPT Williams wasn’t sure what to do; there was no protocol for this. “York, I don’t want any UCMJ on my record; you know what an Article 15 would do to my career?”

York interrupted and gruffly said, “Listen, Captain. I am in Afghanistan. CPT Scott is with me; he’s been shot. When we were extricated, we were attacked by our own troops. They killed most of our team. That’s all I can tell you. I am begging you—forget for one moment the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and please make a call for me! You have to trust me!”

Shit!
CPT Williams thought.

Looking around, she noticed that no one was paying her any attention. She thought back to those tense moments when York and CPT Scott had worked with her at CORe. CPT Scott was the executive officer at the time, and her commander, and York a lowly private. In the span of twenty-four hours, she had watched York go from just another insolent private to hero. He had guided a CIA officer by satellite to safety, not once, but twice. Not only did he save the man’s life, but York had been instrumental in helping the CIA officer stop forty-eight nuclear warheads from impacting on the United States. The president himself had promoted York on the spot and awarded him with the nation’s highest non-wartime medal. Of course she trusted him.