The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (16 page)
Read The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) Online
Authors: Joseph Nagle
“Who am I calling, York? Hurry, I don’t have much time!”
York felt a wave of relief and said, “Go into the archives; find the file on the professor. Call his private number.”
When CPT Scott heard this, he shot a stony glare at York. York ignored him.
CPT Williams typed feverishly; small beads of sweat began to line the thin, blond hairs of her brow. Soon, she found what York wanted and said, “I’ve got it. I am dialing now.”
Placing the call, she put York in conference with the line. A man answered after the second ring.
She didn’t hang up. If this was going to come back and bite her in the ass, at least she wanted to know why.
POST EXCHANGE,
82ND ABN DIV
FAYETTEVILLE, NC
E
lizabeth H. York was aware that the soldier—the paratrooper—was staring at her. She was accustomed to this, but still wished that she had changed out of her yoga clothes and into something less revealing.
The place was crawling with soldiers and paratroopers.
Fayetteville, North Carolina is a small—and almost backcountry—city co-located with Ft. Bragg: home of the 82nd Airborne Division and the 7th Special Forces Group, her husband’s current-duty assignment. As such, the amount of testosterone within a twenty-mile radius was enough to fill a number of small states (and probably immaculately impregnate all of the willing).
The paratrooper that ogled her was more awkward than he was young; he was as cliché as could be, and she did what every woman does in this situation: she walked quickly by and ignored him.
As she walked through the Post Exchange, she kept her stride fast, but she noticed he was following her.
Great
, she thought,
this is all that I need right now. Another swinging prick that thinks jumping out of planes impresses every woman he sees.
Elizabeth was used to the way men stared at her—from the moment she had grown breasts, it had never ceased. It was bad enough in general, but she also knew there was a direct and linear correlation between its intensity and the proximity of any military installation.
To the slight defense of the drooling paratrooper in tow, Elizabeth was more than beautiful: she was exquisite. It didn’t help that she was wearing a very tight and revealing outfit. No curve, crevice, or part of her body was hidden or left to a man’s imagination. She had just left the yoga studio, and the PX was to be a quick stop on her way home.
Tall and lean, her tanned skin was an appetizing shade of light caramel; her shape was certainly better than most. The better part of each day was spent running or doing yoga; it was her way of passing the time until her husband—SSG Jonathon York—would be safely at home.
Elizabeth picked up her pace; she was tired and extremely thirsty—she had forgotten to bring fluids to class, hence the visit to the PX. North Carolina was grotesquely hot this time of year and beyond humid, today in particular. Elizabeth had just finished a grueling ninety-minute session of advanced core power yoga, and every muscle in her body ached. The session had been conducted at one hundred and two degrees and had squeezed every ounce of available fluid from her pores.
All she wanted was her favorite electrolyte drink and to be left alone.
But the paratrooper couldn’t help himself.
He had seen her walk into the PX and had nearly dropped the sandwich he was casually eating. He saw the way that her lightly muscled body rippled with each step as it interplayed with the rhythmic, lascivious movements of her breasts: he had been instantly aroused.
It wasn’t his fault really. He was a whisper from nineteen and fell instantly in love, unable to differentiate the feeling from lust.
With no control of his egotistical, self-confident demeanor, he reacted in the manner that any red-blooded, testosterone-filled paratrooper would do: he followed her with his tongue nearly wagging.
Elizabeth was in the store and heading toward the cooler.
He wasn’t far behind.
As she opened the door to the cooler, she paused for a moment and closed her eyes, letting the frosted air splash over her face. She could feel the laws of physics in motion as the icy air raced across her face, trickling down her exposed neckline to where small beads of sweat were still forming. The cold relief continued down her front and to her sandaled feet.
A slight shiver ran through her.
Miniscule bumps of flesh tingled atop her skin, and the cold forced the roundness of her breasts to become even more accentuated as her chest heaved when the cold air filled her lungs.
The paratrooper saw this and couldn’t wait. Ready to pounce, it was time to make his move.
Elizabeth opened her eyes, closed the cooler door, and saw his reflection in the glass; her moment of satisfaction flashed to anger. Enough was enough. Spinning, she intended to confront him with a bit of feminine vitriol and a sharp lesson on the proper way to handle oneself in society and in the presence of a lady.
But no words could form through her lips. She gasped loudly. She struggled to breathe. The world around her suddenly went black.
Perhaps it was because the North Carolina day had been so hot, or because the ninety minutes confined in a stifling yoga studio had left her so dehydrated, that she fainted. But more so, it was because the small, flat-screen LCD that hung above the wall and over the left shoulder of the paratrooper was showing the face of her husband with the words
Missing and Presumed Dead
underneath.
Regardless, this would be the one time that she would be happy that a stalker had been so close.
The young paratrooper instinctively reached forward and caught a collapsing Elizabeth the moment she had lost consciousness.
As he held her limp body, he became afraid. All of his juvenile thoughts were instantly gone.
He didn’t know what to do.
He shouted out for help.
T
he room was small, smaller than Gerald had thought it should be.
Numerous electronic devices surrounded him along with varying arrays of computers, monitors, and other items that appeared only fit for a laboratory. He felt compressed by the machines and the devices; they cascaded a wave of unannounced claustrophobia over him. It reminded him of the times when as a member of Special Forces, he and his team would be cramped into the belly of a plane, readying to be inserted into their next mission.
He had felt claustrophobic then and he did now, an interesting reaction for an elite soldier and former Green Beret.
Perhaps it was because he was so tired that he was so uncomfortable. The old man—the scientist—had asked him to wait in the lab, but his patience was growing thin and the small stool upon which he sat burrowed painfully into his backside. The last thirty-six hours had been without much rest. But he knew what he carried in the satchel was of an importance far greater than his own lack of comfort or need for sleep.
He had been surprised if not appalled slightly by the thief’s methods—but the thief had to be admired for the accomplishment, one that took a number of skills. Bringing down Notre Dame, stealing the Crown of Thorns, and assassinating France’s president, along with the woman thought to become America’s next president, was no small feat. Gerald was sure that the man had been well trained; most likely he had a Special Ops background, too. Gerald recognized the telltale signs.
It would be this decade’s 9/11.
As he waited, he tried to not let the heaviness in his eyes reveal his tired state. The clock ticked slowly by, and his eyes fluttered as he fought his drowsiness.
Finally, the scientist returned.
He wasn’t alone.
At his side was a diminutive man who was older than the scientist and whose age was revealed through the tremors in his uneasy gait and the liver patches of differing shades marking his skin. His hair was thin and his body even thinner. Life looked ready to escape him at any moment.
Gerald rose to his feet in recognition. The new Primitus: their leader, the head of the Order!
Unsteadily the old man slid his feet across the floor toward Gerald, propped by a thick wooden cane in his left hand. He eyed Gerald carefully and then slowly he held out his right hand; Gerald immediately took it, not surprised that it felt both frail and bone-thin.
Without saying a word, the old man released his weak grip and nodded at the other man. There were no words spoken; the scientist knew what was to be done next.
Gerald watched from behind in silence as the man removed the crown from its protective reliquary and set it gently atop an aluminum table.
The scientist was wearing a white lab coat and protective, blue hospital gloves. Over his face, he wore a plastic shield. He handled the crown carefully and accordingly to its value, both historic and monetary.
Gerald watched as he inspected the crown. He was using a large magnifying glass that was connected to an articulating metal arm. His inspection was painstakingly slow and long in duration. And then there was a small gasp. This roped the attention of the Primitus.
The scientist never removed his eyes from the magnified series of thorns when he instructed, “Gerald, the lights,
si’l vous plait
, turn them off.”
Gerald did as told. The room was bathed in black; within moments, the old Scientist depressed a button on the magnifying glass. A purplish hue glowed down on the thorns. The ultra-violet light cast an eerie sensation throughout the room and within Gerald. He moved closer, wanting to see what the scientist saw.
The old man’s eyes were cemented to the image in the glass. “Curious, monsieur?” he asked, noticing that Gerald had moved closer.
“Yes—what is it?”
“Come then, have a look. But touch nothing! Understand?”
Gerald nodded that he did, and then leaned in; through the glass, the magnified thorns appeared large and ominous, dangerous even.
“Do you see it, monsieur?”
The old Scientist spoke with a trace of excitement in his voice.
Gerald did see it; magnified and bathed in ultraviolet light, one of the thorns had a spot that glowed much brighter than the rest. And then he saw another one.
Even more curious, Gerald asked, “What are they?”
“Blood, monsieur. What you are seeing is spot blood.” Without hesitating, the scientist instructed Gerald, “The lights, si’l vous plait.”
Gerald paused; he was unsure of what he had just heard, and asked, “Blood? Do you mean Christ’s blood?”
The scientist didn’t answer, but instead repeated his command: “The lights.”
Doing as he was told, he turned the lights back on and watched as the scientist continued his work. Inside his mind was a frenzy of thoughts. He could hardly believe that before him was a thorn with a spot of Christ’s blood. The Primitus must have sensed Gerald’s thoughts because he said, “Gerald, what you have supposed is what we are now trying to verify. There is more that we need from you.” He pointed to one of the room’s cabinets that hung on the wall. He said, “In there, monsieur: your instructions.” Without another word of explanation, he returned his attention back to his work.
Gerald made his way to the cabinet and removed a small package from inside. Opening it, he read over its contents, and then read them again to make sure he understood. Also in the package was a small electronic device; he knew what it was: a way to approximate the age of organic material.
Gerald returned his attention to the old man in the lab coat.
Delicately the scientist removed two of the crown’s thorns from the rushes with a small pair of tweezers. Carefully and gingerly, as if the small thorns were dangerous, he placed them onto an aluminum tray.
Atop the tray, and already prepared, were a series of fluids—chemicals. He mixed them into a glass container, and when satisfied that his measurements were correct, he poured some of the mixture into a thin glass tube. It was an aromatic mixture of benzene and a number of other fluors.
As if his life depended on it, the scientist slowly retrieved one of the thorns and placed it into the glass tube, giving it a gentle swirl. After encapsulating the tube with a rubber top, he raised it high to inspect the mixture in which the lone thorn sat. When satisfied, he set the vial into a square mechanical device—a liquid scintillation counter.
After shutting its door, he punched feverishly away at a computer terminal. When he appeared ready, he struck the final key. The machine instantly whirred to life and filled the room with a low, monotone drumming.
He then turned his attention to the second thorn.
The Primitus cleared his throat slightly, and asked, “How long will this take, doctor?”
The scientist stopped what he was doing and quietly said, “Monsieur Primitus, the carbon-14 dating will not take long at all. However, the next step in the verification process requires the use of a polymerase chain reaction—PCR—technique. It will take some time. I have delayed the carbon-14 dating to coincide with the results of the DNA test. The results of both tests should be received about the same time.”
