The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (26 page)

“Get it? I suppose he just won’t hand it to me, will he?”

“No, monsieur. No, he will not.”

“And this item—you do not know what it is, but offer to pay me twenty million for it. I presume that there is more, no?”

Gerald stiffened in his chair; he hadn’t yet touched his espresso. He said, “He is a man highly placed in American intelligence.”

“Continue,” Charney said, retaking his seat. He knew that the American wasn’t finished.

Before continuing, Gerald reached into his bag and pulled out a folder. He laid it on the table and slid it toward Charney.

Charney opened the folder; in it were a number of pages and a glossy photograph.

Gerald lowered his voice and leaned in before saying, “He is the deputy director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Services. He is trained in special operations, and I hear that he is quite good.”

Charney frowned a bit and fingered the ridge of the empty espresso cup as he quickly read through Dr. Michael Sterling’s dossier.

“He may offer you a bit of a challenge, monsieur.”

Gerald sat back. Charney contemplated.

Finally realizing that he had not yet tasted his dark-roasted espresso, Gerald gingerly picked up the cup and sipped at it. He turned his nose up at the bitter taste of the cold espresso, causing a bit to trickle over his lip and down his chin.

Wiping away the errant brown liquid, he stated, “There’s something else we need you to do, too.”.

There always is,
thought Charney.

Pulling out a second folder from his bag, he handed it to Charney. “He will not be alone.”

“And the second man,” asked Charney as he opened the folder, “is he American intelligence as well?”

“No,” was Gerald’s abrupt response, “he is Special Forces—a Green Beret. He has a USB device and a map book in his possession; you need to get these items as well.”

“And after I retrieve these items, what of their dispositions?”

“Sterling is to die; the other one, I will leave that up to your discretion. He’s nobody.”

Setting the second dossier on the table, Charney reached back with both hands and cupped his head. Tilting it backward, he looked up at the clear night sky. He calculated the risks. He contemplated the odds of success: an American CIA officer and a Green Beret.

Twenty million.

Since when do the Americans send operatives and soldiers on treasure hunts?

First, it was the Crown of Thorns and then the Shroud of Turin.

Now this.

Something much bigger was occurring; he wasn’t oblivious, but it wasn’t his concern. He had only one: Samothrace. The crown and the shroud had earned him five million each. This final mission and the twenty million that it paid would get him to his masterpiece much sooner. Thirty million for a few days’ work. This would be enough.

“Well,” interrupted the impatient American, “are you interested?”

Charney’s eyes were like ice; they were intense and focused as they cut a cold stare into Gerald.

“On two conditions,” Charney stated.

“Name them.”

“Half of the twenty million now, regardless of my success or failure; the other half on delivery. This is not negotiable.”

“And the other condition?”

Charney pulled a pen from the inside of his coat and grabbed one of the coffee shop’s white paper napkins from its holder. He began to write. When finished, he handed it to the man.

“This is your second condition? What is this?”

“It is not your concern. This, too, is not negotiable. Do we have a deal?”

Gerald stared back at Charney with just as much intensity. He thought for a few long moments and then responded, “I will make the arrangements.”

Gerald pushed himself away from the bistro table and stood. He flung a twenty-euro note on the table and said, “The espresso was a good idea. I will send your instructions in the same manner as done previously. You will have them and your money by morning. Your other condition will take some time. I will send someone to you with what you need—in Paris. Is this acceptable?”

Without showing a hint of any perceptible emotion, Charney replied, “It is.”

“Very well. Consider it done,” said the American. He picked up the black duffel bag and was surprised at its weight. Without saying another word, he walked away.

From across the cafe, the young barista saw the American leave. She was happy to see that Charney was finally alone. She casually reached to her shirt and undid one more of its buttons and then walked over to him. At the table’s edge, she leaned down and set a second cup of espresso in front of her handsome patron. This time, she leaned in a bit closer and lower, doing so purposely. She lingered in front of him slightly. She knew what tempted every man’s weakness, and she wanted him to be tempted.

Charney was receptive to her advance. He couldn’t help himself. He was a man, although the wrong sort—he was the kind that preyed on a woman’s ignorance; sensing her credulity, he touched the top of her hand and then slid his fingers up the length of her sinewy, bronzed arm, stopping just short of her breast. It was a rather presumptuous act, but he had calculated her intentions correctly. He watched as her skin reacted to his touch. He heard her nearly imperceptible gasp to the pleasure his touch brought.

This pleased him.

“I would prefer a glass of pinot—do you know a place, somewhere quiet?” he asked.

Without hesitation, she coyly responded, “Mine is nearby. I am just finishing my shift.”

Charney gazed into her eyes, and replied, “Good.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A STERLING SURPRISE
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VA

T
he section chief stood over the analyst, and in a controlled manner said, “Do you have him, Mr. Garrido?”

“Working on it, sir.” The analyst’s words were accented; an interesting mix of Puerto Rican and Oxford English.

The analyst, Jorge Juan Garrido, had graduated three years ago from Howard University, a historically black college. Referred to as the “Black Harvard” by some and “Mecca” by others, he had graduated at the top of his class, and his academic skills easily transferred to the professional world. He quickly climbed the lower ranks of the CIA and was now the section chief’s second-in-command.

Although his name gave a clue to his nationality, he was as African as they come. Puerto Rican by birth, his features were prominent and handed down unimpeded from ancestor to progeny. His Puerto Rican pride ran deep, but even deeper was the love for his family’s African history. He could trace his lineage to the fifteenth century, to the first African man to step foot on Puerto Rico. His most esteemed forefather was Juan Garrido—for whom he was named—a conquistador and son of a West African king.

In search of gold and adventure, Juan Garrido had sailed with Ponce de Leon, looking for both. Nearly twelve generations later—some 350 years—Jorge’s grandfather’s grandfather had fought at Manuel Roja’s side during the Grito de Lares: the first major revolt against Spanish rule by Puerto Ricans.

Jorge’s dark and thick fingers punched madly away at the keys to his terminal. Unlike his forefathers, he would not earn the right to carry the Garrido name through direct combat. He was a modern warrior. Today, battles were fought differently. Where once a sword flashed death, commanded obedience, and nurtured revolt, technology had taken its place. Jorge wielded today’s modern version of yesterday’s weapon. In front of him were three flat-panel LCD monitors; each displayed a dizzying array of streaming lists, digital traffic maps, and flashing pictures.

He worked unencumbered, even though his section chief hovered over him.

He was focused.

On the other side of the country, at 611 Folsom Street in downtown San Francisco, a lone guard sat silent and was near asleep. Behind him, a windowless, heavy door—painted in an unassuming, drab color—wouldn’t have warranted a second glance from any passerby had it not been for the armed man perched in front of it.

The AT&T Switching Center was one of a number of nodes that calculated circuit size, bit error, and latency rates. A seemingly innocuous and yawn-gathering bit of monotonous work for a room guarded by an armed man, but it was more. AT&T’s Switching Center at 611 Folsom Street housed the top-secret processing core of a high-speed circuit connection that made available all of its data and communication traffic to a main computer complex housed at Quantico; to a database used solely by US government intelligence organizations.

More specifically: the NSA and the CIA.

Through the processing core, Jorge now accessed every bit of stored communication data that started or ended in the United States. Cell phone calls, text messages, and Internet page hits.

It was an illegal act; the 1978 Foreign Intelligence Services Act (FISA) expressly prohibited eavesdropping on US citizens.

Jorge didn’t care, nor did the thought even cross his mind. He had a mission to accomplish. Tracing cell phone use didn’t register as unlawful to him.

His hands tapped in a fast rhythm; his eyes bulged in intensity. “Come on,” he said out loud.

He let out a long, slow breath, and then a smile.

“There you are, Doc,” he whispered.

The section chief saw it and knew, too; he shot his version of a smile—lips pursed tightly until they turned white—in the direction of his competent prodigy. “Talk to me, Mr. Garrido.”

Jorge first focused on a geographic perimeter in a two-kilometer radius around the area where Michael had been last seen and the nearest vehicle had been stolen.

He eliminated any calls that occurred during the time it would take most injured men to run over obstructed terrain between those two points.

Michael wasn’t most men.

His legend was well known.

He was trained to move fast.

Jorge had deducted a few minutes from his calculation.

Luckily, only thirteen cell phones had been used during that window of time. It was a somewhat rural area; fewer people were in the radius window. Six calls had ended with no answer.

The list dropped to seven.

One had been a text message. There had been a quick response. Jorge tried this one first.

His luck continued.
Got you, Doc!

“I think I have him, sir. It has to be him! I’ve intercepted two text messages. They pinged from a cell tower near his escape.”

“How do you know it’s him? Who’s he talking to?”

“I’ve just completed the chain, sir. You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve got him chained to one of our own. That’s how I know it’s him.”

“Bloody hell! Who?”

“It’s Lou, sir.”

“TAC!” shouted the section chief.

“Sir!” replied the tactical acquisition commander.

“Find Lou. Bring him in, and I mean yesterday!”

“On it, sir!” the TAC shouted back.

“Mr. Garrido, keep tabs of those phones. Now let’s find out just where in the hell he is going. Have you found the car yet?”

“Not yet, sir, but give me a few minutes.”

“A few minutes, we don’t have. Get me his location, Mr. Garrido! I want Sterling in custody!”

Jorge could feel the intensity closing in on him. The pressure in the room was thick; there was a buzz of disbelief. Jorge could see a few of the other analysts staring at him with questioning eyes. But it wasn’t up to them to determine the veracity of their orders—only to follow them.

The section chief leaned in as close as he could, but Jorge ignored him. He continued to work, his head snapping left and then right as he analyzed the fast-moving data.

Lines depicting the movements of different cars striated the screens in a spinning, endless spiderweb of data. Jorge quickly calculated and discarded the ones that didn’t belong.

He was narrowing the search.

He cross-referenced the location of Michael’s escape, the cell phone usage, stolen cars, and any telling pings to the unseen series of GPS satellites in low-Earth orbit.

He focused on the most linear path between Michael’s text message and Lou’s reply.

It was only a matter of time.

Everyone can be tracked.

The rate of his breathing remained steady. The section chief’s increased.

The analyst knew he had him before the section chief did, but he let the old man take the glory.

Hola, jefe. ¿ A donde vas?

“There!” the section chief pointed. “Blow up quadrant 17G.”

Within moments the image was larger.

“Mr. Garrido, enhance the picture; zoom in on the driver’s face. Put it on the big screen.”

Jorge complied without question.

In front of the room, the section chief stood staring at a larger than life-size screen. On it, the head of the driver hung low as he passed through a tollbooth near exit 12 of Route 267. His hands were firmly clenching the steering wheel of a silver minivan.