The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (21 page)
Read The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) Online
Authors: Joseph Nagle
Quickly, he picked up the phone and dialed his commander.
When his call was answered, the policeman said, “Sir, sorry to wake you, but we have a problem.”
OLD FRIENDS, NEW
PROBLEMS
OAKTON, VIRGINIA
M
ichael could feel his heart beating faster. It had been three years since he and York had last spoke. At that time, York had been a young Army private and assigned to NORAD. There, he was a part of a small joint task force that operated the CORe center: a highly classified organization housed deep in Cheyenne Mountain of Colorado Springs, Colorado—in NORAD—that monitored and tracked worldwide insurgent activity with a cluster of powerful reconnaissance satellites.
Then, York had been a young, insolent soldier who had been counting down the days until he was freed from the Army. However, an attack by Hezbollah on the Umayyad Mosque in Syria, where Michael had been on assignment, had thrown the two of them improbably together. York’s main responsibility at CORe had been live tracking via satellite. During the attack, York had expertly guided Michael from the mosque and to an extraction point. Along the way, York’s keen senses, natural tracking abilities, and adept instincts had saved Michael’s life.
Barely twenty-four hours after the attack on Umayyad—while Michael was in Rome—York’s skills had been put to the test once more. Via satellite, he had helped Michael track the man responsible for the attack on Umayyad.
York had saved Michael’s life again. It was from those experiences that York found his calling and had committed to special operations; it was from those experiences that Michael knew he could trust the young soldier.
“Professor,” York’s voice was soft and to the point, “I need your help. My commander is hurt; he took a bullet to his kidney. I’ve stopped the bleeding with a coagulant, but he needs medical attention.” York peered over at his commander; Scott’s face was an uneasy shade of gray; his eyes seemed a bit shallower than earlier.
Michael asked, “Can you travel?”
“I’ll do what I have to, but we have to get out of here. I can’t trust anyone back at Salerno. The laptop that held the intel was destroyed, but I made a backup of the hard drive. I have it with me. I need your help, sir.”
“What’s the nearest border to your location, York?”
“Pakistan—east of us, sir; you’re not suggesting I go there, are you?”
“No, York, but listen carefully. Do you have transportation?”
York apologetically eyed the old Afghani man. He hated the thoughts he was having but hoped that the man would understand. Answering Michael’s question, York said, “Yes, I have a truck.”
Captain Scott’s eyes acknowledged what York had said. Immediately, he began to scan the Afghani man’s home for anything that they could use to tie up the man.
“Good,” said Michael. “On the southern border, there is a small city called Zahedan; it’s in Iran. Follow the Pakistani border south. Find Zahedan on a map and get to it. When you are there, go to the Rasouli Bazaar. There is a brickmaker; he is a friendly. Tell him that you need to ship two hundred and seventeen new bricks by boat. You got that, York?”
“Yes, sir. I got it: Rasouli Bazaar; new bricks by boat.”
“No, goddamn it! Two hundred and seventeen, York! Two hundred and seventeen new bricks by boat. Don’t fuck it up, York. My contact will shoot you faster than you can finish your sentence!”
“Okay, take it easy. Two hundred and seventeen, I got it!”
“Listen, I will only say this once: the brickmaker will only get you what you need to get out of country. The rest is up to you. Get to Mumbai, Juhu Beach. Look for a gate to the Theological Society. There will be a guard; tell him you want Dr. Hora. Tell Dr. Hora that I sent you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Mumbai, Juhu, Theological Society, Hora. I got it. Then what?”
Michael didn’t answer; he was walking through a long hallway in his home that connected his kitchen to his front room. Michael stared out of the window; what he saw left him without words, causing him to pause. The neighborhood was inappropriately quiet.
Down his driveway and across the street, he saw that his neighbor’s curtains were tightly shut. The sun was beating intensely onto the large picture window that dominated the front of the man’s house.
After moving into the neighborhood, Michael and Sonia had made the customary introductory rounds to meet their new neighbors. It doubled as a means for Michael to reconnoiter those that lived by him and to be neighborly—to seem normal. They both had learned right away just how much the man across the street loved roses. Everywhere they went in his home, they were met with paintings, pictures, drawings, and books adorned with or about roses. Even the porcelain cups that the man used to serve hot tea to his new neighbors were painted with a rose emblem.
Most impressive, if not a bit strange, the front portion of the man’s home had been converted into a quaint sunroom and indoor rose garden. He had been more than excited to show Michael and Sonia each and every variety that he had; in particular, he fawned in a drooling fashion over his meticulously maintained clusters of yellow Harrison’s roses.
Michael had learned that his neighbor’s curtains were always open when the sun shined, lest the roses be forced to suffer from strangulated photosynthesis.
The sun was beating down brightly on his neighbor’s window.
The blinds were drawn shut.
Michael’s senses lit up; he drew in a short breath, held it, and gazed from home to home; from bush to tree. It didn’t take long. Two doors down, and to the right of his neighbor’s home, the roofline wasn’t as uniform as it had been before.
To the untrained eye, nothing would have seemed amiss. Michael’s eye was not untrained. Michael moved away from his window and put his back against the wall.
On the roof was a spotter.
York asked once more, “Sir, are you still there? What do I do next?”
Michael’s response was pithy. “Get to Mumbai, York. I will be in touch.”
Without saying another word, Michael ended the call.
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
A
fter Stanford heard the phone call end, he returned his attention to Dr. Sterling and York’s positions. He typed feverishly away on his keyboard. Unseen and hovering in low Earth orbit, an NRO satellite was instructed to lock in on the source of the phone call.
“Damn!” Stanford said out loud. “This isn’t good! How is this possible?”
Stanford picked up his cell phone from the desk and dialed another number. A man on the other end of the line answered. “What is it, Stanford.”
“Sir, the mission failed. Two men survived. The packages are with one of them.”
“Are you sure?”
Of course I am sure, you arrogant prick.
“Yes, sir; what’s left of the Alpha team—a staff sergeant named York and Captain Scott, the team’s commander—are heading to Zahedan; it’s just over the border and in Iran. Sterling gave them a contact there. He’s helping them get to Mumbai; he’s putting them in touch with a company asset, at a CIA safe house. York downloaded the package onto a memory stick.”
“And the other item?”
“Presumably still with York, sir,” answered Stanford.
Ignoring the last response, the man asked, “Do you know exactly where in Mumbai?”
“Juhu Beach, the Theological Society. I am targeting the precise location now,” Stanford pounded a few more commands into the computer. A map of India materialized with a crosshair indicator blinking over the western edge of Mumbai. Stanford zoomed in; a GPS photo of Juhu Beach showed the precise location of the Theological Society’s entrance.
“Found it, sir. It’s right on the Indian Ocean, making the likely mode of travel via water. Also, the captain is hurt; he can’t make the trip by foot, and there is a doctor at the safe house. My bet is that they will be getting there by boat and at night. I can get a team to Zahedan. We have assets in-country, we can intercept them there: the team can be there within an hour and eliminate them by the end of the day.”
“No. I don’t want a covert op in Iran, Stanford. There’s too much risk of interference with the Taliban, and, if they do get across the border, they will have a hell of a time blending in with the locals.”
“Sir, I highly suggest you let the team get them in Iran. I know the risk, but you should let the team take them out. Every hour that goes by and those two aren’t dead, the level of risk grows.”
Ignoring Stanford’s suggestion and comment, the man asked, “And Sterling, where is he now?”
“At his home, sir. What are my orders?”
“Bring Sterling in. Do it now.”
“Yes, sir. But what about York and Scott?”
“Activate a team in Mumbai. Kill Scott; keep York alive.”
“Just Scott, sir? What about York? He’s not supposed to be alive.”
“I don’t believe that I stuttered. No mistakes. I want this mess cleaned up, and I want you to make sure it happens. Things have changed; I need York alive. Do you understand your orders?”
Stanford hesitated for a moment; the man sensed as much and he repeated, this time with a palpable ire in his voice, “Did I make myself clear?”
Stanford replied calmly, “Yes, sir. I understand my orders.”
“Good. Now, about Sterling: get him in custody—unofficially—call me the moment you do, and, Stanford—”
“Sir?” Stanford questioned.
“Use a heavy force: Sterling is quite good.”
Stanford had anticipated as much. The men were already in place. He didn’t need to wonder why the plan was being changed. His suspicions had been aroused in the days prior, but now it made even more sense: the crown and the shroud, the intel that York had.
Stanford knew: they must have found him.
T
he Special Activities Division (SAD) team member couldn’t believe what he had been ordered to do. His breathing was coming fast as he ran up the long flight of stairs in the expansive suburban home. At the top of the stairs, he turned the corner and brushed up against the thick stalk of a small rosebush.
“Shit,” he spat out loud.
The heavy thorn of the rosebush left a long scrape against his left forearm. Small droplets of blood were beginning to form.
Without missing a step, he ran down the hallway and into the bedroom at its end. Making his way to the far side of the bedroom, he opened a window, climbed through it, and found the perfect spot on the roof.
The mission’s instructions had been received barely twelve minutes ago. He had done a double take when he had read the target’s name: the deputy director of National Clandestine Services, Dr. Michael Sterling.
His boss.
The CIA maintained a highly trained group of paramilitary officers whose missions were always covert and overseas. The 1947 National Security Act disallowed the CIA to undertake any police or law enforcement functions at home or abroad. But that same act ambiguously allowed the CIA to conduct covert action and, in turn, was strengthened by Ronald Reagan’s very broad and even more ambiguous—and purposely contradictory—Executive Order number 12333, which granted exclusive power to the CIA to conduct “special activities” that the government could deny.
The Special Activities Division was from where Michael’s legend was formed.
As the Special Activities Division sniper laid his black polymer case onto the roof, he wondered if this mission had been ordained by that Executive Order.
Opening the case, he took a quick inventory of its contents. Lying neatly inside the closed-cell, foam-lined case were the rifle body with folded stock, the detached barrel and suppressor, bolt assembly, bipod, and subsonic ammunition. With well-trained precision, the paramilitary soldier assembled his AWS covert sniper rifle. Once fully together, he lay into a prone position, placed his cheek atop the rifle’s stock, and peered through the 12x50 Schmidt & Bender military sight.
“Eagle One, this is Eagle Eye.”
“Go ahead Eagle Eye.”
“In position; target is found. Will engage at your order.”
“Roger, Eagle Eye. Maintain position. Fire on my order.”
“Eagle One, understood. Out.” The sniper stared diligently through the scope, hoping that the order to fire would never come. His boss was more than a legend in SAD: everyone respected Dr. Michael Sterling.
Out loud, he mumbled, “What the hell are we doing at the Doc’s house?”
Dr. Michael Sterling was in his front room, his cell phone still in his hand. He had crouched low, but knew that it wouldn’t matter. The Special Activities Division’s spotter would have a thermal scope aimed at his home that could read his body heat through walls. He had personally written that guideline into the standard operating procedures. He knew that the team that surrounded his house was now using one, and, if done right, was probably using a second. He saw the sniper sneak out onto the roof and wondered how many operatives there would be: one full team, at least, probably two.
