The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (45 page)

There was a bit of silence between them. Lou shook his head back and forth as if something had just been revealed to him. When he repeated himself, it wasn’t in the form of a question. It was a matter-of-fact statement: “Portugal.”
So that’s where he is.

Jorge was quiet.

Lou looked at him and waved his one good hand at Jorge as if he were dismissing a child. “It’s amazing that you haven’t put it together yet—it makes complete sense—we didn’t free him to make him look more guilty; we could care less if he takes the blame or not.”

“Then what, what are you using him for?”

“You know, Garrido, you would think you Watchmen would have studied your own history more. Sterling knows more about your past than the lot of you put together. Sterling was freed because he has a very unique set of qualities: he is one of the most renowned experts in religious history, an expertise that only a small handful of people on the planet have, plus the man has the skills to get into places most would say would be impossible. Sterling is just another one of our pawns, and, besides, he owes us for the shit he put us through three years ago!”

“History?” screamed Jorge. “What does history have to do with this; what is the endgame?”

Through a sneer, Lou growled one word: “Proof.”

“Proof? Of what?”

No answer.

“And the section chief—why kill your own man?”

Lou looked up at Jorge uneasily; his eyes shook slightly. “The chief, Stanford killed him?”

Got you,
thought Jorge. “You didn’t know, did you? That’s right: Stanford shot him before trying to kill me. It seems like the Order isn’t even on the same page. The chief is dead. You didn’t know about Portugal. Looks like you are in the middle of a coup to me.”

Lou’s head slumped lower. It didn’t make any sense.

“And, Merlin—why is Merlin being reactivated?”

Without looking up at Jorge, Lou spat out: “We’re done, Garrido. Now get your island ass outta here! I ain’t givin’ you nothin’ more.”

But Lou knew that his words were futile. Jorge wouldn’t be going anywhere. Jorge had heard enough. His anger could no longer be contained. Lou was in the Order, the section chief, too. They had killed the senator and had tried to kill him.

Jorge ended his questioning. A verdict had been rendered; punishment was next.

Rushing at Lou, Jorge’s punch landed square over Lou’s already purpled and severely broken nose. There wasn’t much left to shatter, but Jorge followed the first blow with two more. All three had landed in the same spot.

Lou’s head snapped backward; his body had nowhere to go. He was too weak to counter. By the time the stars dancing around his head faded, his nose had nearly doubled in size from the instant swelling.

Bulbous and deformed: that’s how this would end.

Jorge’s chest was heaving, and his barrage had ceased. He held onto his own ribs as each breath sent a sharp pain through his torso. With some difficulty, he interrogated, “Why is the Doc in Portugal? What did you send him to do? Proof of what? What’s the Order after?”

No response.

Lou just stared defiantly, albeit barely. His senses were still in a daze, and his head wobbled slightly as his neck muscles began to fail him. Two streams of blood flowed from his nostrils.

Jorge spoke calmly when he said, “I know about Merlin, Lou. I’ve seen the schematics for the firing block, for the TBA-480. I know that the Order is in bed with al-Qaeda. Why are you reactivating Operation Merlin? Is this the Order’s objective? Is there a handoff in Portugal?”

Again, Lou didn’t respond.

“Come on, Lou! It’s over. You’re done. It doesn’t need to go this far! Now tell me why—why is Merlin going live? Is there going to be a strike? What’s happening in Portugal?”

Lou’s laugh came from his throat and spilled with difficulty from his broken body. His words were raspy, and as they came out, a bit of blood mixed with saliva sprayed from his lips.

“Merlin? Al-Qaeda?” Lou adjusted himself painfully in his chair. “You are really in the dark—you and your righteous Watchmen. You follow us around the globe; you think that you are the world’s secret police, and all that you can bring me is fucking Merlin and some backward, cave-dwelling terrorists! If we wanted to blow something up, we would. It ain’t as difficult as you think, Garrido.”

Lou paused to catch his breath.

“Merlin is nothing!” Lou screamed. “Nothing! It’s an enigma, you prick, a way to keep backward-thinking, atavistic knuckle-draggers scratching their heads. It’s a way to keep the ambitions of those sand-jockeys under control, nothing more. Merlin is just a tool—a goddamn smokescreen. I’d say it’s working, too. Look at you scratching your head; you haven’t the faintest idea what this about.” Lou laughed, but it came out with difficulty, sounding more like a painful exhale.

Jorge wasn’t sure. Everything pointed to Merlin, to make al-Qaeda nuclear.

Lou could see the confusion on Jorge’s face. He could see that the man was unsure about what to say, about what to ask, so he helped him. With a dangling finger pointed weakly at Jorge, he showed him what little smile he could. “Look at you, trying to figure it all out, trying to put a puzzle together when you don’t have all the pieces. Every question you think you have just makes you more confused.”

A wave of pain hit Lou, and he paused. His cough came much more violently this time. The fluid in his lungs was filling faster. He could feel it. His fate became apparent.

I’m drowning in a room with no water.

He chuckled.

Raising his gaze toward Jorge, his moment of pleasure morphed into anger and vitriol.

“You are in a dark room, Garrido; a dark room with no door, and all you have is a dead, obsolete operation. The only thing more pathetic than your lack of knowledge is that stupid, dumb-dog look draped across your face right now.”

Jorge had had enough. His slight grip on control was gone. This had gone as far as it could. One member of the Order had tried to put a bullet through his chest and killed one of his own. Here sat another one, patronizing him; pushing him; chiding him like a child.

The punches came in flurries, each more violent than the last, one after the other.

Jorge finally stopped. His broken chest was heaving in pain from his efforts.

Lou’s eyes were rolled deep into the back of his head. An interesting liquid gurgle rolled from deep within his throat.

Jorge waited: he had nearly beaten the man to death but made sure not to push him beyond the point where he couldn’t return.

It was a struggle, but Lou groaned as his senses righted themselves. His stare was slightly distant and almost went through Jorge; only one eye could partly open.

Jorge’s knuckles were bared to the bone on one hand. The skin was split on the other. Slowly dripping streams of blood cascaded to the floor from his still clenched fists.

Slowly, Jorge relaxed his balled fingers and then reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his hands.

“I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to do this. There’s an easier way for me to get my answers, but the side effects—well, I don’t need to tell you, do I?”

Jorge pulled out a small black kit from his inside pocket. Unzipping it, he pulled out a vial of clear fluid and a hypodermic needle.

“Sodium thiopental or pentothal, depending on whom you ask, in case you were wondering.”

Lou raised his gaze a bit higher.

“This will burn a bit as it goes in, but I will get my answers. And I suppose the side effects are of no consequence now, are they? The brain cells that are not burned away from this drug will do you little good anyhow. You’ll be lucky if you can say your name without drooling when I’m finished.”

Inside Lou’s mind, it was over. He had lost, that much he knew. If the truth serum didn’t kill him—not to mention his injuries—it would certainly cause his ability to think to regress to that of six-year-old.

There was only one thing that he could think to do. “Mind if I smoke?”

Jorge pulled the needle from the vial and inspected its contents. When satisfied, he replied, “Might as well. You’ll probably forget how much you enjoy that filthy habit by the time the drug is out of your system. Besides, it’s doubtful that’s what’s going to kill you anyway.”

Lou laughed at the dark joke, and, with his one good hand, he unsteadily removed a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket. The book of matches that had been tucked into its cellophane wrapping fell to the floor.

“Guess my motor skills ain’t as good as they used to be.” He shook the pack of cigarettes until three of them emerged. Putting his lips on one, he pulled it from the pack. Biting on its end, he spoke through his teeth and asked, “Do you mind?,” gesturing to the matches on the floor. “I don’t think I’ll be able to light it.”

Jorge picked up the matches, but before lighting one, he held Lou down and shoved the needle into his neck. Lou writhed slightly and groaned as the drug filled his jugular vein and spread to the rest of his body.

Jorge was right: it burned. It was like a molten fluid was filling his veins.

Jorge smiled as he pulled out the needle.

“Shit, Garrido! You over-bred, self-righteous asshole: you could have given me some warning!” The drug was already taking effect. Lou’s one good eye was having trouble maintaining focus, and he nearly dropped the cigarette from his mouth.

Jorge lit the match and held it to the cigarette.

Lou smiled.

As he puffed, the flame of the match turned from an intense yellow to a curious green.

Lou inhaled deeply.

Jorge’s eyes bulged from their sockets.

It was too late.

Jorge screamed out, “You son of a bitch!” and then slapped the cigarette from Lou’s mouth.

It didn’t matter: the cyanide inside of the cigarette was entirely too fast-acting.

Lou’s body convulsed horribly, and his skin immediately took on a freakishly pink hue.

Jorge backed away from the man. The air in the room smelled of rank tobacco and burnt almonds.

Lou’s body was still. The smoke that had not yet been exhaled slowly trickled upward from the dead man’s mouth.

I’ve got to get a hold of Sterling,
thought Jorge.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CALLE OFICIOS,
1 GRANADA, SPAIN

A
ndalusia’s countryside had a quiet beauty. The hills rolled, and the ubiquitous sylvan spread like a wide baize canopy throughout the undulating hills of forest and green.

Granada was different—not worse, just different—York noticed as they entered the city’s limits. It was marked with carved edifices of differing styles and history. Everything looked heavy, formidable.

Michael directed him through the city, occasionally pointing left or right as his eyes darted from the navigation system, out of the window, and then back again.

Although not a largely populated city, it was dense and everything seemed to close in on York—it was either claustrophobic or agoraphobic: he wasn’t sure exactly which. The structures that surrounded him as he drove down
Calle Recogidas
were impressive and ornate, as if the walls held secrets still yet to be told. Lost on him, however, were the influences of the Visigoths, the Romans, the Greeks, and, of course, the Moors. York knew nothing of architecture and even less of history.

“Pull over here, kid.” Michael was uneasy; his voice did nothing to mask this. They both were. The final one hundred or so miles had gone by quickly, but they knew the man shadowing their every movement wasn’t too far behind.

It made Michael more than nervous to know that a man would go to so much trouble to make sure that he and York would make it to their destination.

York pulled the Bentley to the side of the road as Michael had commanded; Michael opened the door and got out of the car, York following.

“Leave it, kid. That car is a much bigger target here. We make the rest of the way on foot.”

York gave the car one last look, stroked its hood gently, and said, “It was fun while it lasted.”

Both Michael and York moved quickly through the streets. Michael led, York stayed close. As they moved, York saw Michael’s limp was becoming more pronounced; he failed in his attempt to hide the painful grimace scribed on his face with each step.

York broke the silence. “You ain’t lookin’ so hot, Doc. You okay?”

Michael pursed his lips tightly but knew the kid was only trying to show concern. “I’m fine. We have other things to worry about. Stay focused. Our tail must be nearby. Watch the high ground and crowds. And remember, he’s armed.”

York pulled out the weapon Michael had given him in Portugal and spun it around his finger like a cowboy doing tricks. “So are we.”

“Oh, good lord, kid. Put that thing away before you hurt someone. Just keep your eyes open, and watch your six.”

The two men moved; their eyes darted left and right, York’s a little more than Michael’s. The street was showing some life. As they walked, York glanced up and read the street sign:
Calle Reyes Católicos
—the street was named for the Catholic Monarchs.