The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (77 page)

He visualized each step, each action, every moment, and detail.

And then he did it again.

Michael had been doing so all night.

Across from where he sat and on the other side of an old, hand-carved mahogany coffee table was a long, antique couch. It was upholstered in a rich blend of maroon, gold, and green; its framing came from a bulbous, single piece of darkened oak, and it fit well in the richly appointed apartment. Who was on it, however, did not. York was sprawled awkwardly in a deep sleep. His right leg was hanging over the back of the couch while his left one was planted on the floor. For some odd reason, York had shoved his right hand deep into the cushion where the back of the couch met its seat. At least there was no snoring this time—thankfully.

The morning sun was beginning to split the horizon and spilled a bit of new light into the room. Bits of dust fluttered about, in and out of the rays of light that poured in from the window to the floor.

Danielle was in the voluminous apartment’s small kitchen. Michael couldn’t see her, but he could smell the aromatic bliss of the darkly roasted coffee that she was preparing. Along with the pleasant molecules of brewing bean that diffused slowly about was the mouthwatering smell of hot, freshly rolled butter croissants.

Michael could hardly stand any longer the wait for his breakfast. Prophetically, Danielle glided into the room with a ceramic plate covered with two layers of steaming croissants in one hand and an equally hot French press in the other.

Setting them both down in front of Michael, she smiled. “I will be back in a moment with some cups for the coffee. Please start with the croissants. I hope that you like them.”

Michael smiled at her. “I know that I will,” he said as he grabbed without hesitation one of the croissants. It burned the tips of his fingers, and he shuffled the treat between both hands while blowing on it.

York woke from the smell of the freshly made breakfast. Stretching his long arms wide like a bird in flight, he never took his eyes off of the rolls. Grabbing one in each hand, he looked a bit like a child at Christmas.

This couldn’t have made Danielle any happier. “Coffee for you too, Jonathon?”

York replied, “Sure, why not? The Doc’s got me hooked.”

The two men were still recovering from the last three days; their bodies demanded calories, and the plate of croissants was emptying quickly.

Danielle returned with a tray upon which were three white porcelain coffee cups, sugar, cream, and spoons. As she set the tray down, she remarked, “Mon Dieu! I should have made more.”

Michael swallowed his final bite and wiped the butter from his fingers. “Is everything ready, Danielle?”

Danielle sat next to Michael. “Oui, Michele, it is; just as you had asked.” She picked up the last croissant before Michael or York could rob her of her breakfast.

Michael leaned in to her and kissed her forehead. Danielle closed her eyes and wore the look of a joy-filled daughter. “Good. I knew I could count on you.”

Michael looked at his watch. His face took on a sudden appearance of seriousness. He nodded to York. “It’s time, kid.”

Both York and Danielle stood simultaneously. As Michael turned to leave, Danielle grabbed his wrist softly. She had a look of concern that couldn’t be hidden by her innocent, round eyes. Michael stared into the blacks of her pupils, silently letting her know that it would all be okay. Danielle pulled herself closer to him and, standing on the tips of her toes, kissed both of his cheeks.

There were no words. It was always this way when Michael left. He smiled at her; reaching out he squeezed both of her hands, and then caressed both of her cheeks delicately.

York was already at the door when Michael let both of her hands go.

Behind the two men, the door closed.

Danielle closed her eyes and fingered the dark grainy wood of the door; slowly, she let out the breath that she had been holding. “Please be careful… Papa.”

CHAPTER NINETY

HOT TARMAC, COLD
WORDS LE BOURGET
AIRPORT PARIS, FRANCE

T
he day wasn’t hot; to the contrary, in most of France, it was quite temperate. On the airport’s tarmac, however, it was quite different. The sun’s rays blistered downward to the ground only to radiate upward, amplified by the surface of the bituminous concrete. Francis Q. Door could feel the burn of the rays on his expensive, hand-cut suit and across his face; from behind, there was no relief either: the oppressive heat generated from the Gulfstream 650’s two idling Rolls-Royce turbofan engines burned his backside. Door felt the two walls of heat compressing him into nothingness; he felt flattened and more than uncomfortable. He desperately wanted to wipe away the thick film of perspiration that already lined the inside of his starched collar and now dripped down his spine. But he dared not show weakness to the hoard of press standing in front of him, nor to the world that watched.

Instead, he smiled mendaciously at the bouquet of microphones and cameras thrust forward at his face and projected a faux sense of comfort. “Thank you for taking the time to see Senator Faust and me off; unfortunately, as you all will understand, my statement will be brief, as the senator is already aboard the plane and still recovering from the horrific events of the last twenty-four hours, and I am still coping with the loss of—”

For effect, Francis Q. Door choked up a bit on his last word, lowered his chin to his chest, and paused; he worked hard to force a tear to stream down his cheek and was quietly pleased that he was able to do so. Casting a newly determined gaze at the cameras and journalists, Door slowly wiped away the tear.

“—and I am still coping with and coming to terms with the death of my wife—of my Elizabeth; the sooner that we can be airborne, the better. Having said that, my message to you all is this: first, the senator and I both thank the people of this great country for your care of the senator and the work undertaken to ensure his speedy and full recovery. Second, to the family and friends of those lost in the act of cowardice at Notre Dame: when we win the election, and win we will, Senator Faust as president and I as the vice president will hunt down those responsible for its destruction and avenge those lives that were lost! We will avenge the loss of your president’s life, of my wife’s, and the lives of the countless and innocent unnamed people, whose only mistake on that horrific day was to be standing in support of democracy and civility inside and outside of Notre Dame—this much I promise you!”

For emphasis, Door swung his clenched fist in front of his body and clenched his teeth; in a flash, his face of grief was replaced with one of clear anger. Staring at each member of the press, there was a fire in his eyes that projected sincerity rather than the rhetoric it really was.

Taking a breath, Door finished: “Finally, I have a message as well to those out there who seek to bring their uncivilized and outdated terror to the civilized soil of progress, we are not going to sit back idly and passively watch as you spread the disease of your polluted ideology; we will be vigilant and without hesitation in the protection of any citizen of any nation that has embraced democracy from your kind; and rest assured, we will find you, we will hunt you down, and we will bring every last one of your sickened, backward-thinking, weak-minded kind to justice!” With a nod that stated he had finished, Door turned and climbed the stairs that led into the private jet; the journalists had waited patiently during Door’s address, but were now shouting a barrage of questions at him, with each journalist trying to outdo the shouts of the one next to him.

One of them had been prepared ahead of time.

“Mr. Door! Mr. Door!” shouted Geneviève Paulette. “Please, will you address the rumor that it was Dr. Michael Sterling, the deputy director of the CIA, who was behind Senator Faust’s abduction and the murder of your wife?”

Door froze on the stairs of the plane; he had nearly entered into its fuselage when the reporter had volleyed the question. Turning, he responded, “What a curious question you’ve asked, considering all that the man has done for us. Let me be clear—no, let me be quite clear—on this: Dr. Michael Sterling is a patriot, and a man whose country is indebted to him, and not the other way around. I am not authorized to speak on behalf of the United States on any involvement on the part of Dr. Michael Sterling in any of the godforsaken events that have transpired, but this I can say: any part taken in these matters by Dr. Michael Sterling was assuredly to the benefit of both Senator Faust and to the United States; the rest is just malicious conjecture.”

Francis Q. Door entered the plane, and the door was soon closed behind him.

The journalists watched as the plane taxied away from them. Soon it was thundering down the runway. They began to disperse as the private jet’s wheels separated from the tarmac; within moments the plane was nothing more than a fast-disappearing dot in the sky.

Geneviève watched the Gulfstream for a moment longer than the rest. Her microphone dangled loosely at her side. Behind her, a growing buzz among the remaining journalists caught her attention and curiosity. She first looked at her cameraman, who shrugged, and then she headed to one of the small groups nearest to her to find out what the commotion was about; they were bantering wildly back and forth. Her intention had been to ask one of them what was going on, but her producer was already dialing her cell phone with the news.

Stopping in her tracks, she answered, “Oui?”

Geneviève could only listen; her mouth was agape, but nothing came out. What she was hearing shocked her, and she suddenly wished that she hadn’t pulled the short straw for this assignment. Her cameraman watched as her angular face went from its normal pale appearance to a crimson hue, a color that meant only one thing.

“I know that look, Geneviève; what’s happened?”

She tossed her long, curly auburn hair over her right shoulder and smiled devilishly. “Grab your gear, and let’s move!” she shouted, having not answered his question.

She rushed past him without any care for his troubles with his equipment. He fumbled with his heavy black bag that held the numerous pieces necessary for his trade.

“Ah, idiot! Come on! You need to move quickly!” she shouted while backpedaling.

With his equipment hanging hastily over his shoulder and his camera in hand, the cameraman moved awkwardly, but quickly, trying to close the distance between him and Geneviève. When he did, he asked in between his huffs and desperate gulps for air, “What is it? What’s happened?”

Through a wicked smile, Geneviève replied, “A survivor!”

A survivor?
the cameraman thought.

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

FROM THE ASHES
MOMENTS AGO

“C
afé?” he asked, while holding out a small Styrofoam cup of coffee.

“Oui, merci.”

The two-man crew had set up their camera from a vantage point across the Seine River. They had a direct and crisp view of the Pont Neuf, but had grown bored from the repetitive scene.

Each moment was no different than the last.

Firemen and volunteers moved steadily about, carrying whatever it was they could. Their faces were worn and vacant of emotion; the death that surrounded them had robbed them of any palpable energy, draping their faces with blank and hollow one-hundred-yard stares. They were drones. They were at the mercy of their morbid mission. They no longer held out for a living soul to be found amid the broken pieces of stone and rubble; instead, their hope had twisted into finding the remnant of someone dead.

Even that proved difficult.

On the rare occasion when a piece of someone lost was found, it was isolated, and the men and women—policemen, firemen, and rescue worker volunteers—hovered over it in solemn prayer as if what remained of the dead man’s, dead woman’s, or dead child’s soul was in it.

They never spoke. To the contrary, each person wondered his or her own questions.

Who were you?

Did I know you?

Were you loved?

Did you matter?

No matter the individual questions, each shared the same one with the equivalent measurement of pain: will your family have this piece of you to bury?

The two men sipped on their coffee; neither wanted to be over there—
there
as they now called it, robbing the place of its once-revered identity—completely content with being separated from
there
by the icy, fast-flowing waters of the river at their feet. They were unsure why they were still camped out across from the place. There was nothing more to see that hadn’t already been shown to the world countless times.

“So what do you think, another hour or two?”

“Who knows?”

But they both knew that it wouldn’t be another hour or two; it would be much longer.

Philippe sipped his coffee slowly, enjoying the steam that rose up and flowed over the tight skin of his cheeks. He held the cup to his lips without drinking and blew slowly on the hot surface of the coffee, forcing the heat and steam to his cheeks as he watched the men and women do their morbid work on the grounds of Notre Dame.