The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (84 page)

“I know that area!” shouted York. “That’s Kofe Sofaid; that’s where my team was attacked.”

York pointed to a spot on the screen and said, “This area here—magnify!”

Jorge complied.

Michael moved closer.

“There,” shouted York. “That valley there! Don’t you see it?”

Jorge squinted his eyes, not sure what he was looking at. “See what? I don’t see a thing! We’re wasting time!”

“Jesus Christ, right fucking there—get outta the way!”

Jorge didn’t move.

“Mr. Garrido, let the kid sit and drive.”

Jorge’s dark complexion took on an even darker hue; his blood pressure undoubtedly rose a bit, but he complied without question and conceded his seat.

York jumped into it and went to work.

Michael trusted York; three years ago, the kid had spotted armed men on rooftops using satellite-tracking technology. If he saw something, then something was there.

Michael waved to one of the TOC’s operation officers. “Put it on-screen.”

In a matter of moments, the large screen at the front of the Operation Center was split into two images: the Reaper’s view was on the left, and what York saw was on the right.

The images were moving fast for both. York was playing the keys of the computer like Beethoven on the piano—left and right, back and forth. The image of what he saw danced around on the screen.

A dizzying array of blurred rocks and dense foliage emerged. The images became crisper. Down a long valley, York worked to see.

Suddenly, a dark flash split across the screen.

York chased it.

“Well goddamn, if that ain’t a fucking plane, then it’s the biggest bird I’ve ever seen!” quipped York.

Michael shouted out, “Lock in on that plane; get the drone ready to fire.”

Just as Michael barked the order, the back end of the Antonov opened wide; moments later two large pallets fell from it underneath four voluminous parachutes each.

“They’ve done the heavy drop, sir.”

“Get that drone to the location, and I mean yesterday, TOC!”

“The Reaper’s at full throttle, sir, it’ll be a few minutes still!”

“Is it in range for the Paveways?”

“Affirmative, sir!”

“Kid, can you paint that cargo?”

“Negative, sir, they’re too small; there’s nothing to lock onto.”

“Paint the Antonov, then; send a message to whoever’s on their way to collect the cargo to turn the hell around. It might buy us some time.”

“Roger, sir. Target painted.”

York locked onto the coordinates of the fast-descending plane. Michael wanted to blow it out of the sky before it crashed. He wanted the al-Qaeda forces below to be very aware that they were being targeted, that they had lost.

“Fire when ready!”

The TOC relayed the coordinates to the Reaper. A moment later, an alarm signaled that the Paveway II laser-guided weapon was readied.

“The pilots have jumped, sir,” shouted York.

“They’re not our concern, kid.”

Two Paveways released from the Reaper and split the sky toward the Antonov. It took less than thirty seconds; all watched as the large cargo plane was destroyed in a terrific ball of expanding fire.

Below, the debris from the destroyed plane rained downward, tearing through the trees. Men—al-Qaeda forces belonging to Abu Mohammed Ibrahim—scattered amid shouts and screams and in all directions. Ibrahim stood stoic as chunks of shrapnel and disemboweled plane slammed into the ground and through the trees around him.

One of his soldiers, his captain, who was not five feet from him, took a large, flaming piece into his chest and fell to his knees, dead before his body hit the ground.

Ibrahim didn’t flinch. It would be Allah’s will.

When the last piece of the Antonov had fallen, Ibrahim shouted his orders. “Secure the pallets; find those pilots. Kill them when you do.”

He pointed to one of his men. “You—you’re now my captain. Make sure my orders are followed!”

Ibrahim stepped out into the sunlight and watched his men race toward the billowing parachutes marking the location of the cargo. He narrowed his eyes as he watched. He salivated silently at the power the cargo would bring him, and the death he could return in Allah’s name.

At Langley, Michael was tense as he watched the Antonov disintegrate. But the mission wasn’t over. “Kid, find that cargo.”

York scanned the ground for it, and Garrido jumped onto the computer next to him. “I’m calculating the path of that cargo, Staff Sergeant.” A few moments ticked by as Jorge calculated the rate of descent, the path of the plane, its speed, and the altitude at which the cargo was dropped. It wasn’t rocket science; it was physics. Finding their location was not difficult.

“There, narrow in on the grid half a click to the right of where you are now.”

York did.

Both men smiled.

On-screen, the room watched as two-dozen al-Qaeda members encircled the two pallets. They were quickly undoing the harnesses; a large six-wheeled truck pulled up next to them. The men began to offload the centrifuges and other bomb-making components.

In the TOC, Michael issued his last order. “Lock in on those pallets; use all fourteen Hellfires. The only thing I want to see is a deep, charred hole in the ground. Fire when ready.”

The TOC obeyed and pressed one lone key.

All fourteen missiles released from the Reaper.

Mohamed Abu Ibrahim froze in place.

The sounds of the valley weren’t right.

A slight whistle was in the air.

It grew louder.

Ibrahim’s eyes shook as he saw an array of missiles fast approaching; in his mind, one last thought raced:

Why, Allah, Why?!

EPILOGUE

T
HE
D
AY
A
FTER

Charles de Gaulle was filled with travelers. One couldn’t turn around without bumping into someone. To make the overcrowded airport even more uncomfortable, the heat and humidity from the day was trapped inside. Men and women alike had uncomfortable drizzles of sweat running down their fronts, backs, and the sides of their faces.

The old man stood in the security line; his traveling companion was next to him.

When it was their turn, an airport security officer asked, “Have you anything to declare?”

The old man shook his head.

“What’s in the bags?”

His traveling companion replied, “Just a blanket and a cheap piece of art; some personal effects, too.”

“Just a blanket?”

The deep voice came from behind the men. As they both turned, they were shocked to see half a dozen pistols pointed at them. Among the armed police stood the head of the Vatican Swiss Guard. He was flanked by a few of his men.

“Oh, dear,” said the old man.

The baritone voice belonged to the head detective of the French National Police. He stepped forward and took both bags, setting them on a nearby table. When he opened them, he smiled.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pair of blue latex gloves. Slowly he pulled out the old man’s “blanket” and unrolled it on the table.

A collective gasp from the numerous bystanders cascaded throughout the airport.

The Shroud of Turin.

Next, he gently removed the “cheap piece of art.”

The Crown of Thorns.

The gasping grew louder; a few of the more religious made the sign of the cross.

The head detective turned and faced the old man and his companion. “Gentlemen, it would seem that we have a bit of a problem.”

As they were being cuffed, the head of the Vatican Swiss Guard watched. The old man—the Primitus—eyed him curiously and pursed his lips before saying, “I’ll be back, Hector.”

“I’m sure you will,” Hector replied. “And when you do, I will be waiting… Father.”

T
HE
R
ETURN OF THE
K
ING

Sonia curled up next to Michael on the sofa in their home office. A few rooms away, Company-contracted workmen hammered, sawed, and sanded their house back to its original condition.

Michael moved stiffly as he adjusted himself under her body.

“Hurting a bit?” Sonia asked.

“A little,” Michael replied as he stroked her long, black hair. “You?”

“I’m feeling fine. My neck is a bit sore, but the rest of me is okay.”

Together, they watched as the news anchor reported what they both already knew.

The silver-haired journalist spoke smoothly. “An antiquities dealer, who is considered one of the world’s foremost private art collectors, was arrested today along with his traveling companion as they tried to clear customs in France. A rare joint task force, which included certain elements of the Vatican’s Swiss Guard and the French National Police, found the stolen Crown of Thorns and the Shroud of Turin in the two men’s carry-on baggage. It is not yet clear how, or if, the two men are connected to the devastation that occurred at Notre Dame.”

Sonia raised her eyebrows and looked up at Michael.

The journalist continued, “The Vatican issued a statement that a joint effort between the Swiss Guard and the French National Police led to the discovery. A contingent of the Swiss Guard is in France, readying to escort the shroud and the crown back to Rome until Notre Dame can be rebuilt and further security efforts can be established at the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist in Turin, Italy—the traditional home of the shroud.”

“I’ll say it was a joint effort.” Michael sipped on his chilled glass of Chardonnay—Yellow Tail—and continued to watch.

“You guys never get the glory, do you?” asked Sonia.

“That’s not why we’re in this business,” Michael returned. Reaching down, he stroked her well-toned arm. “All of our successes are locked away in a file somewhere.”

“In another stunning announcement from the Vatican,” the journalist reported, “a short statement was released, confirming that bones exhumed from an unmarked grave in the Vatican’s private cemetery belonged to those of King Sebastian the First of Portugal. Lesser known in history, a young King Sebastian went missing in 1578 during a fierce battle in the Alcacer Qebir region of North Africa. It is still unclear how the king’s body arrived at the Vatican. Arrangements are being made for the return of the king to his Portugal home.”

T
WO
W
EEKS
L
ATER
“I W
ANT
I
N
”

Michael and Sonia drove up the lengthy drive from the south entrance of the CIA’s grounds. Sonia watched as the emerald leaves swayed in the cool morning breeze.

A ubiquitous fog rose lazily from the Virginia grasses, bouncing slowly over the landscape.

She caught a chill and wrapped her arms tighter around her torso.

It had been over two weeks since she had been kidnapped, over two weeks since she had last stepped into the hospital as a doctor.

Her next thought surprised her: she didn’t miss it.

Michael brought the car to a stop and parked next to a large red truck.

York jumped out of its cab.

“Morning, sir,” said York politely. His head was newly shaved, and he looked rested.

Sonia ran toward him and gave him a big hug. “Jonathon! How’ve you been; how are you healing?”

“Fine, and fine, ma’am.”

Sonia scowled slightly, “Now, you know better than that, and after all that we’ve been through—it’s Sonia! Don’t ever call me ma’am again!”

York smiled as she gave him a playful shove.

“You look well, Jonathon,” Sonia remarked.

“A couple weeks of good sleep,” Jonathon replied as he patted his stomach, “and some home-cooked meals do wonders.”

“How is Elizabeth?” Sonia asked.

“She’s fine.”

“I can’t wait to meet her.”

Michael joined in. “Have you made your decision?”

York’s face washed over with a new, more serious look.

He nodded in the affirmative.

“Decision—what decision?” Sonia asked. She was confused.

There were no words.

Michael put his fingers between his lips and blew a high-pitched whistle.

Within moments, a white, windowless van sped through the parking lot and came to a screeching halt next to them.

Four very large men jumped out; two grabbed York by his arms. A startled Sonia froze; York shot an angry glare at Michael and yelled out, “So, this is how it’s going to be?!”

“Welcome to your first day of training, kid,” Michael answered.