The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (44 page)

York listened intently as he drove, having learned by now that Michael’s diatribes always eventually led to a point.

“Granada was a Muslim kingdom during their reign, and the Catholic Monarchs created a war with them—a Holy War—for no other reason than for conquest, for power and money, in order to unify Spain. The Monarchs were broke, to be blunt, and they needed more economic resources. As they pushed forward in war, the two of them codified the Inquisition throughout the entire country: they forcibly expelled, murdered, tortured, and imprisoned Moors and Jews, even calling them a mortal danger to Spain. If you weren’t Catholic, you were an enemy of the state and a target. Hell, even if you converted, you were still suspected as a
marrano—
a secret Jew. So much for our morals coming from religion.”

“When did all of this take place?” asked York.

“Between 1480 and 1492.”

“Did you say 1492? That’s the year Columbus discovered America.”

Michael turned toward the young man and flatly asked, “How could he have discovered something that was already inhabited?”

Michael didn’t wait for an answer, and York didn’t intend to provide one. “The year 1492 was when Columbus set sail for a new route to the Indies; he miscalculated by thousands of miles—he was lost. The guy had no idea that he would run into an entire continent. His voyage, however, was financed by none other than Queen Isabelle.”

“Doc, why the history lesson?” interjected York.

“Stamps and coins, kid. Stamps and coins. In 1893, the United States issued three different sets of stamps with Isabella’s likeness appearing on them: a five-cent, fifteen-cent, and four-dollar issue. She was the first woman ever to appear on a US-issued stamp. In that same year, the United States also issued a commemorative quarter with her face on it; again, the first woman ever to appear on our money.”

“Sounds like a powerful woman.”

“That she certainly was, kid—her power was just as strong as her husband’s; they had a motto which they ruled by.”

“What was it?” asked York.

Michael flipped over the medallion and fingered the engravings. He traced his index finger along the initials of the Catholic Monarchs—over Isabelle’s. He looked out of the window at the fast-moving countryside, and then said, “Tanto Monta—they amount to the same.”

“Oh, shit!” shouted York.

“Easy, kid, it’s not that dramatic.”

“No, that’s not what I mean—look behind us!”

Michael saw the flashing blue lights in the passenger’s exterior mirror. A police cruiser was trying to catch up to the speeding Bentley.

“Lose him, kid!”

York pressed more firmly on the accelerator, and the machine barely registered disapproval as it easily jumped from one hundred and thirty to over one hundred and seventy miles per hour.

The cruiser was fading, unable to keep up with the high-powered auto.

“I’m losing him, Doc!”

“Keep it in your pants, kid. You can’t outrun the radio. Find an exit!”

At that moment, both men saw it at the same time. It was surreal, happening in slow motion. In the distance, the blue and white police car lifted almost supernaturally from the asphalt. The underside of its carriage was exposed; the car was airborne just before it flipped violently end over end.

Both men nearly simultaneously blurted, “What the fuck!”

Michael spun around in his seat, but, as expensive and fine as the car was, the back window was too narrow to see easily through it.

What he couldn’t yet see was that behind the police cruiser Charney had sped up as the officer had tried in vain to stop the Bentley.

There was no way that Charney could allow the two men to be diverted from their mission. He needed whatever it was they had been sent to find. He needed it so that he could be paid his asking price: twenty million US dollars and the security plans for the Louvre. They were the key to his masterpiece.

The policeman had been in his way.

Charney had sped up from behind and had quickly made his way near the police car. He had rolled down his window.

His diminutive Glock 27 was only 6.29 inches in length, and its weight barely registered in his hand. The magazine held the standard nine rounds, but he had needed only one.

A precise shot had pierced the rear passenger-side tire of the police car. At most speeds, a blown tire would be only an annoyance. But when surpassing one hundred and fifty miles per hour, it’s deadly.

The small explosion of the tire played with the laws of physics, but the car couldn’t win—that’s science. The police car had been sent into a rolling fit.

Charney sped past the wreckage, smiling.

Initially unable to see much, Michael focused harder on the wreckage. Bent metal and smoke covered the highway. After a few moments, Michael saw a car pass through the smoke. He couldn’t see the man who was driving, but he was quite sure who it was.

Michael knew that this man—the man from the hotel and coffee shop, the man from Belém Tower—had every intention of making sure they found the item for which they searched.

He would be there every step of the way.

Silently, Michael thanked Charney.

Charney whispered in return, “You are welcome.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

GETTING ANSWERS
LANGLEY, VA

T
he officer was atop Ms. Samantha’s back, but she could tell he was giving her a modicum of professional courtesy. His knee was planted firmly, just enough to ensure she couldn’t move, not enough to hurt.

Her eyes stayed affixed to Jorge. He was still; his body showed no sign of life. A small tear trickled from the corner of her eye.
Come on! Wake up!

Jorge was alone; surrounded by nothing, but he heard voices. He had no idea that his heart had stopped and was now fighting for a beat. He had no idea that he was dead. He felt strangely calm.

In the middle of the room, Jorge’s body lay flat on his back.

The armed men were securing the room and had cleared the offices. They found no one else but the two dead men and Ms. Samantha.

It was so quick that Ms. Samantha nearly didn’t understand. Everyone in the room was startled at precisely the same moment. Jorge’s body shot up into a seated position. His eyes were wide and feral. It wasn’t a scream that had startled the armed men and Ms. Samantha: it was the opposite.

Jorge’s body fought viciously to inhale oxygen. His chest muscles were taut and still contracted from the electricity the AED had pumped them with.

More than half of the men instinctively swung their weapons at him; the laser scopes affixed to their weapons painted a tight cluster of red dots at center mass of the once-dead man.

Jorge stared at them in disbelief or in confusion—it was hard to tell. It was a mixture of both.

He peered at Ms. Samantha as if he didn’t know her.

Her eyes closed as she whispered a silent thank-you.

Jorge’s senses were returning, and he started to remember what happened. He looked over his shoulder at the dead section chief. He looked at every armed man in the room.

A man shouted, “Stand down! Put your weapons toward the floor! Now!” The men complied and parted as he made his toward Jorge.

It was Richard, a friend from Jorge’s days of training at the Farm. They had started their careers together and shared the occasional beer.

Richard kneeled next to his friend. He put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Jorge, hey bud,” he said, but Jorge just stared blankly through his friend. Richard snapped his fingers in front of Jorge’s face; he slapped his left cheek lightly. “Hey, man! Stay with me! Look at me, bud.”

Jorge’s eyes locked on his friend’s. His voice trembled, and he said with some difficulty, “Richard, you look like crap.”

Richard smiled and relaxed slightly. “Not as bad as you, man. What happened here?”

Richard’s hand was still on Jorge’s shoulder. Jorge reached up and squeezed his forearm tightly as if to add emphasis to what he would next mutter: “The Doc is innocent.” He then nodded toward Ms. Samantha. “So is she. She saved me; get your men off of her. Help her up.”

Richard waved at the man whose knee was still in Ms. Samantha’s back. He rose and helped Ms. Samantha do the same.

The next two hours were filled with a barrage of questions, often repeated, followed by written statements, photographs, and an incessant flow of this kind of badge and that kind of badge. The paramedics had wanted to take Jorge to the hospital, but he refused. He would be fine, he told them, just had some painful ribs.

He promised his (new) boss that he would go home, get some rest, and get checked out in the morning.

The room had been filled with officials, chiefs, and deputy directors. The CIA has its own coroner, and the section chief’s body was already gone.

Everyone was gone.

It was still and cold.

Jorge walked slowly through the scene of the attack, only just then realizing how big the room was.

It would have to be locked down for forensics; they would be coming within the hour, but it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t find anything. The tapes were erased, and so was the log of the magnetic card reader. The man was CIA—well trained. There would be nothing in the room that would link him to the crime.

But Jorge knew who he was.

Jorge walked to the door, closed it behind him, and secured it.

In the elevator, he didn’t push the button that would take him to the parking lot, to his car.

He pushed the button for the fourth sub-basement.

He wasn’t going home; there was someone he needed to see.

In front of the holding cell, Jorge punched in his code on the secured room’s keypad. The door hissed open.

Jorge locked eyes with the lone man in the room.

Lou stared back without as much as a lone blink; the corner of his mouth turned upward in a sarcastic grin. “I always said that weenie Stanford was a bad shot. I told him: spend more time at the firing range. If I told that ambitious little prick once, I’ve told him a hundred times: make it a headshot. It’s messy, but there’s no second guessing.”

Jorge angrily stared back at the smug officer but said nothing.

Lou continued, “You know, I was wondering if you even had the balls to show your face—I knew one of you Watchmen was close by, I just never figured it was you, Garrido.”

At that moment and without warning, Jorge rushed toward where Lou sat and put the heel of his right boot deeply into Lou’s broken ribs.

Inside Lou’s chest cavity, the already split bones grated as they moved even further out of place. The sharp edge of a broken rib pushed into Lou’s lung.

Lou fell sideways from the chair and roughly to the floor. His breath was gone momentarily, and as it came back, he spat a few clumps of clotted, dark blood mixed with a stream of bright-red spittle to the floor.

Old blood and new.

As he coughed, he felt the telltale signs of fresh fluid building up in his lungs.
Well, that ain’t good
, he thought.

Lou wiped the corner of his mouth with his good hand and eyed the red streak across the back of it. “So, that’s how it’s gonna be, huh? You couldn’t just first ask me what you want to know and then kick me
after
I told you to piss off?”

Lou was a bit unsteady and struggled with his balance as he put himself back into the room’s only chair. He had only one good arm but even that one was failing him.

Jorge screamed at Lou. “The crown! The shroud! Operation Merlin! What’s the endgame, what’s the Order after?! What the hell is this leading to?!”

Lou’s response was a bit sarcastic when he said, “Take it easy, Garrido. We just want our stuff back, that’s all. It belongs to us, not that filthy, backward church! The crown isn’t what you think, and the shroud—”

Lou stopped to catch his breath in his failing lungs. His words came in wheezes.

“—the shroud has never touched the body of Christ. The shroud belongs only to us, to our masters!”

“And the senator: was she just in the way, or was she a target, too?”

“Of course she was a target. She was a little too smart for her own good. We tried to get to her, to bring her on board, but she was the furthest thing from a demagogue: the damn broad actually had morals. Can you believe that shit, Garrido? There was one politician in DC that actually believed the crap she spat out! No, we couldn’t get to her. Believe me, we tried.”

There was actual disgust in Lou’s voice. He spoke with hate. “She was in the way.”

“So you set up the Doc; you let him escape from custody and sent him to Portugal to make it look like he was on the run? But why? Why not just bring him in? Why is he even a part of this?”

Lou cocked his head to the side as he digested Jorge’s question. Without looking at his interrogator, Lou questioned passively, “Portugal?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know!” shouted Jorge.