The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (56 page)

Michael held out his right hand which held his drink; with the index finger of the hand that palmed the glass, he pointed toward a tall wooden door across the room and directly behind the senator. As if on cue, Danielle was already there, reaching out to open it.

“And once he’s in there,” Michael continued, “I am going to put my foot so deep into his left side that his kidney is going to bleed for a week.” Michael looked at the senator with a controlled anger and growled, “That will be for my wife, Senator; she should have never been brought into this.”

When Michael finished his sentence, the senator did finally look at the intelligence officer and deputy director of the CIA and said, “You have absolutely no clue what is going on, do you, Dr. Sterling?”

And then he laughed. It was a deep, throaty laugh that filled the wide-open spaces of the apartment.

Continuing, the senator coughed out with a growing fervor, “Even with all of your education and experiences, you are still in the dark. You tiny little parasites haven’t the cognitive ability to comprehend who we are, what we are! You need us; you always have! Without our control and guidance throughout the centuries, you would be nothing more than hordes of barbaric tribes still chasing your food and still believing it’s best to kill or be killed. You’d still be shouting your prayers at the sun and the moon and begging a ball of fire and a rock for protection and forgiveness! We created this world; we have given you—all of you!—the opportunity to live your short, meaningless lives in relative peace and comfort! We have kept you safe from your worst enemies—each other!”

The senator was in a near scream; his face was red with new vigor as he shouted, “Life as you know it would have never occurred without the Order! Men like you,” Faust motioned to both Michael and York, “are nothing more than our workhorses: smart enough to believe that you are necessary, but still credulous enough to be yoked to do our bidding. You keep the streets cleaned of the urchins that won’t fall into place. And the best part of this—nay, the most comical part—is that you’ve been sold a bill of nationalistic, flag-waving goods mixed with your god of choice for your entire lives, and you don’t even know it!”

The two men, Dr. Michael Sterling and Senator Matthew Faust, stared intensely at one another. The silence between the two was deafening.

Michael spoke first: he saw the chance to get some answers, and he took it: “And Merlin? Tell me, Senator, why would the Order give the building blocks for a nuclear weapon to terrorists, to jihadists?”

Faust calculated his response; one option was to say nothing. He looked around the room and saw the Green Beret boring a hole through him, his fists clenched, waiting for the answer, but wanting to pounce on him. Danielle even appeared curious, too, and had moved closer to the men.

Another option was to tell them—to tell them everything.
Why not,
he thought. His career, his life as he knew it, was over. If these men didn’t kill him, the Order certainly would, if not some raghead. He had failed; there was no way that he would become president, unless…

Faust smiled at the simplicity of his plan, believing that it had a chance to work.

“Dr. Sterling,” Faust said from behind his clenched teeth, “you are so preoccupied with Merlin that you can’t see past that bloody operation. Merlin is just a means—a means that you haven’t yet understood. Your problem is that you are asking the wrong question.”

“And what is the right question?” growled Michael.

“My, Dr. Sterling, it surprises me that you don’t know. You were an interrogator at one point in your career, were you not?”

Michael stared blankly back at the senator.

“It seems that you have forgotten the most basic of your interrogatives—
what,
Dr. Sterling,
what
is the word that you should be using—
what
is Operation Merlin?”

“How about you tell me?” spat Michael.

Senator Matthew Faust only smiled. He appeared almost comfortable. “Dr. Sterling, you were responsible for Merlin, for giving the plans for a nuclear weapon to al-Qaeda. Or have you forgotten: it was your name, York’s too, that was on the intelligence found in that cave in Afghanistan, the intelligence that Senator Door was going to go public with. So you killed her, you and your Green Beret boy-toy here. If necessary, your question—
what,
that is—will be answered in due time. It would seem that you are between a
rock and a hard place
.”

For some reason this made the senator smile and laugh a bit. His laugh brought on a bit of sharp pain, so he shifted in his chair, trying to maintain any semblance of momentary comfort, but every time he moved, the pain ran through the hole in his hand and the bruises on his body. Even with the pain, he felt an amount of confidence beginning to return, and it was his turn to jump on it.

Michael sat back in his own chair, listening to the senator; he would let the diatribe run its course.

“You have no connection between me and Merlin, Dr. Sterling. None!” Faust shouted. “In fact, it is quite the opposite, isn’t it?”

It was then that Michael reached into his coat and pulled out Justine’s phone. He loosely palmed it, toying with it. “Senator—” Michael paused. “You know, I have a hard time calling you that. You are the furthest thing from a public servant. So listen, Matthew, and listen well. I have no doubt that the contents of this phone, as well as its use, can easily be connected to you. In fact, I will go out on a limb and say that there are by far more pieces to the puzzle you have created that can be put together by my folks at Langley that will not only connect you to Merlin—to Door’s death—but will put you in the center.”

Faust’s face went white. He tried to hide it, and in most situations, he could. But this time was different. He hadn’t calculated what a physical connection between him and Justine could lead to; the stakes were too high, and no poker face could hide his fear.

Michael saw this.

It made him smile.

“You see, Matthew, the very thing you egotistical, back-slapping idiots of the Order tried to use to corral us cattle will be your undoing.” Michael stopped for a moment and grimaced. York edged closer, wanting to help him. Michael shook his head, stopping York from coming any closer. Finishing his sentence, Michael said, “Technology, Faust—that which the Order uses to keep us
parasites
under control—will be your downfall. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Faust thought about this for a moment. He knew that Michael was right. That phone would connect more dots than a child’s puzzle. Justine was his focal; she knew and did everything and anything for him. But he had broken the simplest of rules, the one that a man always breaks—never get emotionally involved. She had been scorned and, as she lay dying, she had given Michael the one thing that could connect him with Door’s death.

Faust thought for a bit longer and then leaned forward; he had one card left to play. “I see that little device they put in you is just about at the end of its life, Dr. Sterling.” Faust chuckled sarcastically and said, “You know what they call it, Dr. Sterling?”

Michael didn’t respond and only narrowed his eyes as he listened.

In a whisper that only Michael could hear, Faust gave him the answer, “They call it the Heart Attack.” The senator cracked his own slight smile as he said, “It’s a bit comical, you see. They call it that because when it detonates, it tears a hole in your artery. It’s pretty neat, really, when you think about it. Your artery rips, and you will bleed out in less than five minutes. Your heart reacts by shutting down, by going into cardiac arrest. I’ve been told that most autopsies won’t find the cause, because the coroner stops once he sees the telltale signs. No reason to open up and inspect the inside of your thigh. You’ll have died from a heart attack—that’s what the official record will say.”

Faust paused and took a deep breath. He held it in for a moment before slowly exhaling. He would enjoy saying his next sentence, and he wanted to savor it: “By my calculations, you have about two hours; it would seem that all I have to do is to wait.”

The once defeated senator sat back easily. He had played his final move. His cards were on the table, and both men knew it. There was no poker face; there was no need. The once high-rising senator was very aware that his ambitions now rested on the efficacy of the tiny device embedded on the wall of Michael’s femoral artery.

Michael thought about Faust’s words for a moment; he knew Faust was right. If he didn’t survive the next two hours, all would be for nothing. He asked, “And my wife? Why her?”

Faust appeared as if he were going mad. He dropped his eyes toward his lap and chuckled like a near insane man. After sighing heavily, he raised his head and bore a deep, truly hate-filled gaze into Michael’s eyes. “Your wife, Dr. Sterling, is just another means to an end. She’ll have a Heart Attack, too. Her life is no more important than that of every other filthy rodent that walks blindly through time. The majority of you were never meant to be more than our servants! You haven’t the capacity to govern yourselves; that is why we are here! So, you see, Dr. Sterling, if you have any hope of saving yourself or your wife, you and I will negotiate a different ending!”

The men were nearly face-to-face.

That was Faust’s mistake.

As his rants grew in length, he had leaned closer to Michael. Perhaps it was because so much anger was flowing through Michael, or perhaps it was because the opportunity was too good to pass up. Regardless of the reason, Michael’s elbow swung out in a wide and vicious arc, landing square on the senator’s nose.

“There will be no negotiating, Matthew!” shouted Michael.

It took Faust a moment to feel the pain, which robbed him of his breath. His body had flown backward; he was slumped somewhat in the chair. White specks of unconsciousness floated in front of him. But he didn’t pass out—not because the pain wouldn’t let him, but from the strong hold Michael now had on his damaged hand.

Michael clamped down forcibly.

Faust wanted to scream but could not. The pain was too ferocious. It was as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

And when he was finally able to appreciate fully the pain, it came in full force and was followed by fear. Without warning, Michael was on both feet and had the senator by the collar. With a slight shove, he created enough separation between them to firmly plant the heel of his shoe deep into Faust’s left side—just as promised.

The kick was violent and well placed.

With a lengthy, odd groan, Faust writhed on the floor, unable to deal with the onset of fresh, new pain. Its intensity forced the senator’s eyes to roll backward as if he were trying to stare into the back of his own head.

It was then that he did pass out.

Michael stood uneasily over the senator, doing his best to maintain his balance, and shook his head in disgust. Picking up his drink from the nearby table, he tilted his head and threw back what was left of his glass of vodka, downing its remnants in one long swallow. Danielle motioned, asking him if he wanted another. If the events that had just transpired bothered her, she didn’t show it. Michael shook his head in the negative, declining the offer for a fresh drink—rare for him these days—and then told York, “Put him in the closet, kid; we don’t need him for what’s next. He’s garbage: unwanted, not needed, and dirtied.”

“You’re not going to interrogate him? He might know more!”

“He can’t help us any more than he already has.”

“So we’re just going to leave him?” shouted York.

“We’ll deal with him later; right now, we have a thief to catch and my wife to find. My bet is that they are in the same place.” Michael looked at the senator, who, for the first time in quite some time, had absolutely nothing to add to the conversation.

Not that he could.

Senator Faust was on the floor, having contracted his body into a tight fetal position. His breaths were labored and short. Michael could see that his body was fighting with consciousness, but he asked anyway, “I’m right, aren’t I, Matthew? If I find your thief, I will find my wife?”

The only response from the senator was a slight, painful groan, but in his mind, the senator repeated the same two words over and over again:
two hours.

Michael motioned to York, who obeyed the silent command and roughly yanked the senator from the floor and dragged him toward the closet. Once there, York tossed him in, and Faust doubled over awkwardly; he favored his left side as he spilled into the closet.

With a loud thud, York slammed the door shut and bolted it.

Inside of the closet, Senator Faust felt slivers of icy-hot pain jab deep into his side. His nose had already swollen beyond its normal size. His breaths were short and difficult, and he fought to get them under control; tears forced their way between his tightly shut eyelids.

It was then that Michael’s world spun; his knees buckled as he felt his balance slip. The kick to the senator’s side had taken too much energy. Michael fell heavily to his knees. Danielle shrieked loudly, “Mon Dieu! Michele, what is wrong with you?”

Inside of the closet, the senator heard Michael’s fall. It forced a painful smile as he whispered, “And counting…”