The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (80 page)
Read The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) Online
Authors: Joseph Nagle
Faust didn’t answer the question, but instead asked, “You said it killed two birds with one stone—what was the other?”
Responding, Door said, “The Primitus didn’t trust me—after all I have done for that pretentious prick! They had someone close to you, someone who watched and reported your every move to them. That would mean in the White House, they would be watching me, too, and I couldn’t have that, Matthew—the other bird was…”
Faust reeled backward into his seat; a small pit of nausea lined the bottom of his stomach, and weakly he finished the sentence. “Justine. It was you—you killed her.”
Door responded matter-of-factly. “No, Matthew, I had her killed—there’s a difference; the History Thief was the one who did it.”
Senator Faust felt pain, not physical pain, but the pain that wells in one’s pit when feeling the loss of someone close. Faust had loved Justine; he loved her deeply. He wanted to kill the man in front of him, but he hadn’t the courage or strength to do so. Instead, he sunk even further into his seat. “I don’t…I don’t understand! Why go through all of this trouble?”
Door sipped his Scotch slowly, never taking his eyes from the senator’s as if sensing the man’s desire to lash out. “Why?!” he shouted as he sat forward in his chair. “It has been my life’s mission to get back what was stolen from my family, from me!”
Door relaxed his posture a bit and continued. “In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, my family was one of the richest in Europe and one of the most powerful. One of my forefathers, Armand-Charles de la Porte, was a French noblemen and a high-ranking general. He was also duke of La Meilleraye. In 1661, he married a young girl name Hortense. She was fifteen at the time.”
Door paused and then stood over Faust, an oppressive gesture and reminder of who was really in command. He spun the half-melted ice cubes in his glass in front of Faust’s nose; it was a signal to Faust to stay obedient, and one to himself to refill it; he made his way to the plane’s bar.
As he poured himself another belt, Door continued, “The marriage, like all marriages at the time, was nothing more than a business transaction. Porte was made the Duke of Mazarin and had his eyes set on becoming the chief minister of France—the king’s right-hand man, if you will. You see, Faust, Hortense was the favorite niece of Cardinal Mazarin. The cardinal was extremely wealthy and up until his death was the chief minister of France—”
At that moment, a brief bout of turbulence shook the plane. Door grabbed the silver rail of the bar, careful not to spill his drink. Within moments it was over.
Returning to the seat opposite Faust, Door continued, “Hortense inherited the cardinal’s wealth, and soon after his death, that wealth became Porte’s—her husband’s—and included the magnificent Palais Mazarin in Paris and countless pieces of fine art. The problem was, however, Hortense was a bit too young and overly lascivious and a bit of an obvious flirt. Men
and
women loved her. My great-great-great-something uncle was a bit of a jealous man and, not to mention, a bit of a nut-bag—
certifiable
is probably a more appropriate description. The man was mentally unstable and preoccupied with removing anything remotely sexual from his domain! Christ, he wouldn’t let milkmaids touch the tits of cows; he even knocked out all of his female servants’ front teeth so men wouldn’t find them attractive!”
“Jesus,” mumbled Faust.
“And, taking a page right out of the Vatican’s playbook, he scratched off, chipped away, or painted over what the bastard called
dirty bits
of priceless pieces of work. Hortense wasn’t allowed to be in a room with another man, and the guy couldn’t have been any more unstable—he’d send out bloodhounds at night to scour the grounds for Hortense’s hidden lovers, who didn’t exist, of course! The poor thing! Porte forced her daily to stay knelt in prayer for six hours.”
Senator Matthew Faust listened intently, unsure where Door was headed. His legs felt stiff and so he stood, albeit uneasily, to stretch them.
Door looked at the senator and continued, “It couldn’t have been a worse matchmaking. Turns out, Hortense was a goddamn carpet-muncher; she was having a lesbian affair, and when Porte found out, he went into a rage and sent them both to a convent for their immorality. I can’t think of a better place for two young girls to explore their sexuality than a damn convent! Their affair continued, more unbridled than before. The girls plagued the nuns with endless pranks and finally ran away from the convent by scaling the inside of a chimney. Back home on my uncle’s estate, he beat Hortense incessantly and often. Eventually, she escaped and was placed under the protection of King Louis XIV.”
Door paused and lowered his eyes in an angry glare at Faust and then growled. “My uncle was a businessman, and like all businessmen, you leverage your wealth; you borrow money or use assets as collateral in order to build more wealth. In the late 1500s, his father was loaned a sum of money; that loan was managed well and was nearly paid off. That loan was held by the master of The Order of Christ—it was an honorable transaction between a man of business and a once-pious organization.”
King Sebastian,
thought Faust,
the last master of the Order of Christ.
His next thought was spoken out loud: “The church kidnapped and killed the last master—they killed King Sebastian—didn’t they?”
Door’s body temperature rose a bit as he outlined more; he was red in the face as he spat, “The church claimed they did it for god, but they just tortured, killed, and then robbed Sebastian of the treasury he guarded! They did it for money! The goddamned Vatican punished my uncle—my family—for his ways! The cardinal’s favorite niece garnished their protection. The church used its mighty sword to cut away Porte’s wealth; my family’s wealth, Faust! They crushed the Order in 1578 and stole everything from them! The Vatican took from Sebastian all of the notes held by the Order, notes that are still being repaid to this day! And the Order—the bloody, cowardly Order sat back and did nothing!”
Door’s face had turned a bright red; he could feel his own temperature rising and paused to regain his composure.
It seemed unfathomable. “Why not just stop paying?” asked Faust.
At this, Door let out a low, short laugh. “Stop paying? You really don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you? Faust, if I were to stop paying, I wouldn’t get ten feet out of my front door before a bullet would split my skull. You asked about the History Thief, Matthew, so here it is: since then, my family has been in debt to the Vatican. For centuries we’ve quietly appealed to the Holy Father to forgive us of that debt. Every time, and with each new pope, we’ve been refused! They charge us, to this day, immense interest on that debt for Porte’s treatment of that little whore—the cardinal’s favorite niece! But I’m not the only one who wants that note back.”
“The Order?” asked Faust.
“You’re goddamned right, the Order! My debt and all of the other debt the Vatican holds belonged, at one time, to the Order. With the note returned, my family’s honor and debt would just transfer from one corrupt organization to another. When they contracted the thief to steal those old relics, I saw my chance. I was able to contact him and gave him one more job to do. That thief’s last job was to steal the parchment Sterling found; that parchment led to the location of my family’s note. I was so close, Faust, so fucking close!” screamed Door behind a shaking fist.
Senator Matthew Faust sat back down and was eye-to-eye with Door when he asked, “You brought Dr. Sterling into this to get into the Vatican’s Secret Archives, didn’t you? You knew that he would be the only one that could piece it all together; you wanted him to find the note so that you could destroy it.”
In response, Door outlined, “Matthew, my family has been in debt to the church for over four centuries! That note—that debt—has been held over our heads for far too long; it promised the holder of that note half of any of my family’s earnings until relinquished. Can you believe that, Matthew, half of everything earned, and in perpetuity, as punishment for backhanding a skanky woman! Who makes a deal like that? I am almost ashamed to say I was ever related to Porte, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m giving up half of my profits from our mining operation in Afghanistan!”
Door took the last pull of his Scotch, squinting his eyes as it trickled hot down his throat. “Damn, that’s good!” he bellowed as he set the emptied glass on the table. “Matthew, I made it my life’s purpose to end this dishonor to my family name.”
It was becoming clear to Faust who added, “You couldn’t beat them.”
Door finished the sentence through a wicked smile, “So I joined them.”
“But you weren’t satisfied being just a member of the Order, were you?”
“No, Faust; no, I wasn’t. The Order is antiquated; a bunch of old men who can’t get over pagan rituals and old methods of taking power. They still waste time by trying to find some physical proof of Christ’s existence—what nonsense! It’ll never happen! The Order is backward-looking; they need a leader, not a historian at its helm.”
Faust interrupted, “You want to control the Order! What have you done?! There’s no way that…”
“Oh relax, Matthew,” Door interjected, “have another drink. You are too damned high strung. All that I have done is to hedge my bets. I have taken care of the bloody Order. We are safe. The old man’s—our wonderful Primitus’s—short and ill-conceived reign will come to an end and quite soon, might I add. A very well-placed tip to the authorities will lead them to the old man and that crazed scientist. They are finished. Their days of collecting old relics and trying to find bones are over. When it’s finished, I won’t need that note any longer.” Door leaned in and heavily cupped both sides of Faust’s face. “I am the Order’s new Primitus.”
M
ichael looked at York; he could see it chiseled across his protégé’s face: he was ready.
“Give it to her, kid.”
York complied. There were no words. She only nodded as she turned from the two men to walk away.
Michael faced York; his tone was paternal as much as it was that of a mentor. “This is where the hard decisions come in; it’s not always happy endings and moral lessons—there’s no turning back from where we are going. Are you ready?”
York understood. “He’s responsible for the deaths of those people in Notre Dame, for my team. He said he was going to kill my wife; yours, too.”
Michael furrowed his brow. “But are you ready?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
T
he two would-be leaders of the free world were sitting quietly on the leather seats of the private plane. Senator Matthew Faust was doing his best to understand everything he’d just heard. Across from him was Francis Q. Door; he sat with his eyes closed. Faust watched him, studying him for a moment. Faust was sure that it was the man’s arrogance that made his bronzed skin so taut.
As if sensing Faust’s stare, Door opened his eyes and smiled at the senator, making him feel small and uneasy.
At that moment, the flight attendant returned; she was carrying a tray.
“Oh, wonderful,” said Door, “I’m starving. What’s on the menu?”
But the moment his last word was spoken, he realized that she wasn’t carrying food.
“What the hell is this?!” shouted Door as he went rigid in his seat.
Faust wanted to stand but he felt a bit weak from the mixture of booze and pain medication.
“Take it,” commanded the flight attendant as she thrust forward the tray with her left hand; in her right hand was a small pistol, which was now aimed steadily at Door’s face.
“What’s the meaning of this?! Who are you?”
“Take it,” she repeated calmly, “and press play.”
Door didn’t move.
She cocked back the hammer of the pistol with her thumb; her eyes bore a serious gaze into the industrialist’s—he reached out and took the recorder from atop the tray.
“Press play,” she commanded again.
Door fumbled with it, but managed to depress the play button. If what he heard had been meant to frighten him, he didn’t show it; but what he saw next did.
Down the hallway of the plane, and behind the flight attendant, Door saw the cockpit door open and two men step out.
He nearly dropped the recorder at the sight of them.
“How can it be?” asked Senator Faust with a quiver in his voice.
Dr. Michael Sterling and SSG Jonathon York both, with pistols aimed—one at Senator Faust, the other on Francis Q. Door—entered the plane’s private salon.
No one spoke as the recorder played. As Door and Faust listened to the taped conversation they just had, Michael stepped forward and squeezed the button that turned off the recording.
“I’ll hand it to you, Sterling, you are one resourceful and relentless son of a bitch!” said Door almost admiringly.
Over the barrel of his pistol, Michael bore an angry glare into the man. “You two have one option: turn on that recorder and confess; start with Operation Merlin and where that cargo plane with the nukes is going to land and when! Finish with the assassinations of your wife and the president of France.”
