The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (43 page)

As the two men walked through the entryway, York asked, “What’s puerile mean?”

This caused Michael to laugh.

Levity had returned.

The two men walked down the creaking wooden walkway; both were tuned in to their environment, every sense working to perceive what might be there. Together, as they made their way to the street, they searched the shadows and the faces of every passerby for the man who had followed them.

York was nervous; he had never felt so much like prey. Somewhere he knew that the man was watching them; Michael felt it, too.

They were both tense.

As they approached the street, York silently whispered, “Who was that guy?”

Michael wasn’t quite sure. “I don’t know; no one on the watch list, but the way he slipped that bug into my pocket—he let me kick the crap out of him just so he could get close—whoever he is, he certainly isn’t on our side, but he has balls. I’ll give him that.”

“How long do you think he’s been following us?”

Michael was certain that he didn’t come from the States; he would have known that he was being tailed. And the bug wasn’t any that he had ever seen; it wasn’t Company issue, but looked homemade, albeit of good quality. His tactics were a bit bold, too. The guy had an ego and was obviously working alone—there wasn’t a team, only him.

“He either followed you from India, or he was waiting for me at the hotel—could be the guy who killed your captain.”

“No, he wasn’t. The guy who killed CPT Scott was an Indian man, the doctor’s assistant.”

“Then he was here, kid. Here in Lisbon. The Order told him I would be here; that’s how he found us. It’s his job to make sure that I do mine, and you will do yours.”

Contemplating this while the two walked out onto the busy street, York asked, “Do you think he’s watching us now?”

“I’d bet my salary on it, kid.”

The Order
, thought Michael,
those self-righteous pricks that choke on their own brand of casuistry.

Michael kept his thoughts to himself as they walked.

The silence was growing like a chasm between the two men. York wanted to know more. “Now what?”

He was feeling a bit unnerved knowing that they were being watched by someone—someone that he couldn’t see. His eyes darted left and right. Everywhere he thought he saw him.

“We keep our eyes open and move forward. We have no choice. If I don’t do—if
we
don’t do—what they ask, I’m dead. My wife is dead.” Michael looked at his watch; he had slightly more than a day remaining.

The street they walked down was called
doca do Bom Sucesso
, but neither man knew what that meant. The short street ended at Av. da Brasilia.

Michael stopped.

He eyed the length of the street. Then he saw exactly what he needed; the time was opportune. York saw his smile.

Parked four cars down the road, a Continental GT Speed—a Bentley—sat, quite a bit out of place.

Michael loved cars, this one in particular. He silently offered a thank-you for the gift to whomever or whatever might be listening omnisciently above.

The two men stood next to the car. Michael admired the sleek, long lines of the machine. It was painted Cumbrian green, not the color he would have chosen, but it would suffice. Staring through the window, the thick, white animal hide interior clashed with the car’s exterior.

To each his own,
thought Michael,
but it’ll do
.

It was clear to York what they were about to do, and he sputtered, “Doc, you’ve got to be kidding me! There is no way…we’ll be too obvious…how in the hell…?”

York wasn’t making too much sense; he didn’t really know what to say, but then the past twenty-four hours ran through his mind: Afghanistan, India, and now Portugal. His team, his captain, and, perhaps—he eyed Michael—his friend. Life may end soon, he realized; he may never have another chance. “I’m driving.”

Michael paused for a moment as if calculating. “You think you can handle this thing?”

York smiled. “Just get it started.”

Michael pulled a utility knife from his pocket and jammed it into the car’s electronic keyhole. Nothing happened.

York eyed him curiously. “Doc, that only works in the movies.”

With his gaze still on the car’s dash, Michael said, “Pay attention, kid.”

From within his other coat pocket, Michael removed a small black vinyl case. He unzipped it and pulled out one of its contents. It looked like a small key fob; connected to it was a small wire.

Michael wrapped the lead of the wire around the utility knife and pressed a button. Inside of the fob, an electronic signal sped down the thin filament of the lead and, using the knife as a conductor, the small electric signal routed throughout the automobile’s circuitry.

The signal bounced back to the fob in milliseconds, having completed its task.

A small green light illuminated, and Michael cranked the knife clockwise.

The power of the W12 engine delicately roared to life, sending chills down York’s spine.
Beautiful,
he thought.

Michael climbed out of the driver seat and quickly reentered the Bentley from the passenger’s side. The loud and menacing growl of the engine bathed the interior of the car.

York was still standing outside of the car when Michael yelled, “All right, kid, get in. Let’s see what you got.”

The soft, cross-stitched leather massaged York’s backside as he sank into the seat. The car melted easily around him. Slowly he wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel and then smiled like a twelve-year-old at Christmas.

“Jesus Christ, do you want me to leave you two alone? Let’s get the blazes outta here!”

York threw it forcibly into gear and peeled away. A few heads turned in the car’s direction. The two operatives were racing down the avenue when York yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, catching the street named
Calcada da Ajuda
.

Michael was busy at the car’s navigation system, but only smiled at York’s maneuver and stated, “Having fun already, are ya?”

Hell yeah I am!

“Where to, Doc?”

“Working on it; just head east. We need to get on the A2 going south. You think you can handle that?” Michael didn’t wait for an answer but was clear in his next command. “And slow the fuck down. We just stole a Bentley. Do you want the five-o on us already? When we get out of town, you can have your fun.”

York released the gas somewhat, bringing the two hundred and thirty thousand dollar (without taxes), W12-configuration, six-hundred horsepower machine to a more friendly speed.

“Doc?”

“Yeah, what is it, kid?”

“Don’t say five-o. It just doesn’t work for you.”

Just ahead, York saw the road sign for the A2, one of Lisbon’s major freeways. He entered the road and headed south. Michael had just figured out the navigation system and plugged in the route to their destination.

They were twenty kilometers down the freeway when Michael pointed to the side of the road. “You see that car on the shoulder?”

“Yeah, I see it,” responded York.

“Pull in behind it.”

York did what he was told, and Michael jumped out. “Pop the trunk, kid, and if you see anyone, honk the horn.”

It was taking too long for York to find the automatic release; Michael banged on the trunk in a fit of impatience.

“Hold your horses,” York said out loud, as he pushed the button that opened the trunk. “It’s not like I’ve ever been anywhere near a Bentley before.”

Michael rummaged through the trunk and quickly came across the standard, manufacturer-provided tool kit.

Finding what he wanted, he ran to the front of the Bentley and squatted behind the empty car.

With a screwdriver from the roadside kit, Michael removed the car’s license plate and switched it with the Bentley’s.

Jumping back into the Bentley, he said, “It’s not much, but that’ll buy us a bit of extra protection.”

The two men returned to the highway just as the young driver of the car parked on the road’s shoulder made his way back to it. He was zipping his pants and having some trouble doing so; he had pulled over to take a leak in the woods that lined the highway. On this day, it would be more than just his large waistline that would suffer from the misfortune of his addiction to American Coca-Cola. He had been driving from the north of Portugal and had been on the road for most of the night.

His bladder had been full from the full two liters of Coke he had consumed and from the weight and constricting effects of the girth that surrounded the organ.

He had really had to go.

Unbeknownst to him, in precisely twenty-three minutes, a small army of federal police would chase him down the highway.

He would be frightened and wouldn’t have the chance to immediately pull over. Laid hastily across the road would be a set of spike sticks.

All four wheels of his car would be blown immediately, and he would exit the car confused; a bit disoriented, too.

They would be rough on him.

They always are.

A knee would be firmly pressed into his left cheek, and his arms strongly cuffed behind his plump frame.

Through his left eye, he would see clearly the barrel of a weapon pointed directly into his face.

He would urinate again.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

STAMPS & COINS
LEAVING LISBON

C
harney smirked as he slowly drove past the federal police manhandling the innocent driver.

He slowed down even more—rubbernecking was a natural human tendency—but one of the federal police angrily waved him by.

He nodded at the policeman, but the officer ignored his civility. “Clever, Dr. Sterling; I applaud your ingenuity.”

Charney hadn’t needed to steal a car. His rental (in the name of Juan Lapin) sufficed just fine. Pressing the gas pedal much closer to the floorboard, he sped up. It took a bit longer, to his nervous dissatisfaction, to catch up to the men.

They were driving fast, really fast.

But he saw them about six hundred meters down the highway. The unique taillights and boxy frame of the Bentley’s rear end gave them away. Charney stayed a safe distance behind a small C-Class Mercedes, content enough that he had a visual. But soon, he realized the Mercedes wasn’t going fast enough; the Bentley was pulling away.

“Ah, merde!” he spat out, downshifting. Hastily he made his way around the Mercedes and sped up to keep pace.

“Doc?” York asked, breaking the silence.

Michael had been sleeping. He was exhausted, and his body was overcome by fatigue; the moment the two men were on the highway, his eyelids had become heavy. The moment that they were closed, he had drifted into bliss.

His dream was about Sonia.

He was scared for her; he knew she was for him, too. This had been in his dream. He was reaching out to touch her face, to calm her, to let her know he was on his way to her. But every time his hand was about to feel the warmth of her skin, she seemed just out of reach.

When Michael woke, the dream still felt real—he really wanted to feel her, to somehow make it real.

Sleep still filled his voice. “What is it, kid?”

“Why are we going to Granada—what’s there?”

Michael sat a bit more upright. He had slumped a bit in his slumber. “How far have we gone?”

“About an hour—about a hundred-thirty miles.”

Michael rubbed his eyes and checked out his face in the visor’s mirror. “Pushing it a bit, eh?”

Never taking his eyes from the road, York smirked. “It’s easy with this car. It feels like we’re hardly moving.”

The cabin was silent for a moment.

York couldn’t wait; he wanted an answer and repeated his question. “So why Granada, Doc?”

Michael fumbled through his pocket and pulled out the medallion. He flipped it over a couple of times in his hand. He thought of the Special Activities Division operative in the black Yukon who had given it to him. “This is taking us there, kid.”

Michael stretched.

York was getting restless; he wanted answers, and he was trying not to appear impatient—to be
puerile
—so he waited.

“What do you know about stamps?” Michael finally asked.

“Just that they are outdated; everything’s done by e-mail nowadays,” answered York.

Michael cocked his head in agreement and continued, “Stamps and coins, they all have the same purpose: to feed the egos of the elite, to remind us of them. You ever heard of Queen Isabella?”

“Nope.” York was to the point.

“You should have paid more attention in US history, kid. Queen Isabella was married to King Ferdinand; they lived and ruled during the fifteenth century. Second cousins, I think. They were known as the Catholic Monarchs and were named this by the pope because of their focus on the Christian Reconquista—the Reconquest—of the Iberian Peninsula, the land you are now driving on.”