The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (60 page)

“Clear,” replied Michael in a similar tone.

The room was empty.

But empty wasn’t exactly true; although the History Thief was absent, the room was full, overwhelmingly so.

Michael couldn’t help but try to soak it all in; inside of the expansive room were scores of priceless works of art. So many that it astounded both men.

He saw a Titian and some Picassos, which straddled a Kooning. There was also a Renoir and some small Rembrandts. There was more than one Monet and a large Klimt.

Strewn about atop pedestals and shelves were statues, vases, and carvings.

Some Michael recognized; others he did not.

But what stood out dramatically was the large statue that adorned the middle of the room. It was as impressive as it was overbearing. A dim spotlight lit its curves; Michael had never seen the Winged Victory of Samothrace up close, but he knew of her appeal.

She was both erotic and strong.

She spoke of power and grace.

Her message was triumph and victory.

Michael edged closer to the statue, impressed that the thief had been able to break into the Louvre and steal it.

It was so big.

Standing before it, he still kept a sharp eye on the rest of the room. He could sense that the thief was still in the building. He knew that his Sonia was here, too.

Michael paused and played out the next steps in his mind, working to figure their next moves. York instinctively turned one hundred and eighty degrees so that both men had the room wholly covered.

“Doc, what do ya think? He bugged out?” asked York over his shoulder.

“No, he’s here,” was Michael’s flat reply.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Take a whiff, kid; can you smell that?”

York obliged and inhaled through his nostrils deeply. It took a moment, and the smell was faint. He hadn’t noticed it before, but enough of it had lingered that its traces could be discerned among the smells of damp air, marble, stone, wood, and canvas.

“Yeah, I can smell it. Cigarettes.”

Michael pointed to the floor. “Filthy habit.” On the floor where Michael pointed was the remnant of the History Thief’s last cigarette. “Keep your eyes sharp; watch your six, kid. Let’s clear the floors starting from this one, and work our way down to the southeast corner.”

Michael was following standard MOUT procedure. Clear the rooms; get to the objective. It was the obvious thing to do, but what he didn’t know—and couldn’t possibly know—was that the History Thief’s home had hidden passageways behind most of its walls.

The two men expertly cleared the fourth and third floor.

From inside the walls, Charney paced both men, watching their every move. He was growing more amused as each minute passed. He would wait for the right moment, when the men had made it to the first floor. He would wait until they were in the last corner of his home. He would kill the young one first and do away with him quickly.

The older man—the deputy director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Services—he would save. He had something very special for him. Charney had killed many; killing was a proven skill, and one that he had accomplished in many ways. But there was one way in which he had not yet killed. After realizing this, it Charney knew precisely what was missing from the evening’s triumph.

Tonight, Charney had had his masterpiece in theft, but that hadn’t been enough. There was one final masterpiece still to acquire; it was the most priceless thing a man could have: another’s life in his hands.

Complete control.

After tonight, he would no longer steal again.

And after tonight, he would not kill again.

He had killed in so many ways, in nearly every way fathomable, except for one. Tonight, Dr. Michael Sterling would die; he would die in the most difficult manner conceivable.

Through a small peephole in the wall that appeared as nothing more than a painting from the other side, Charney eyed the men.

He smiled as he watched the two move unimpeded through his home.

Quickly, Charney turned and made his way to the sub-level of his home.

The smile draped across his face never left but only grew wider as he anticipated his final masterpiece.

Dr. Michael Sterling’s life would end, but it would not be at the hand of the History Thief.

No.

Dr. Michael Sterling would die at his own hand.

He would kill himself, and his wife would watch.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

YORK’S DEAD
IN THE HOME OF THE
THIEF

T
he two special operations professionals were about to move to the home’s sub-level.

It was time,
thought Charney, as he watched intensely, seeing his opportunity.

Michael had just turned a corner, which would take him to a staircase leading to the sub-level; a few steps behind, York followed. It was a mistake. Neither man could have possibly known.

Charney pushed a button on the wall next to where he stood. From the ceiling, an iron partition slammed to the ground, separating the two men.

Michael spun around.

York froze.

The two men were facing one another, but they were split apart by the metal divide, unable to see each other.

Michael instantly knew that they had been guided into a trap. He knew that the outcome would be bad. He should have run, but shouted to York anyway. York tried to respond, but in the place of his words was a single gunshot.

York fell, scratching at the metal partition as he slumped unevenly to the ground. He was unable to move or speak.

A pool of warm blood began to spread across the pale marble. York’s eyes closed.

Michael heard the shot and the sound of York’s body falling to the ground.

He pounded the door, but there was no answer.

Michael was a trained man; this wasn’t the first time that he had lost a man, but that didn’t make it any easier. He was growing fond of the kid.

Michael closed his eyes and banged the meat of his fists against the iron. No answer. With his palms pressed against the cold metal, he quietly exhaled his only thought through clenched teeth. “Damn!”

Turning, he didn’t want to leave and hesitated. But he had no choice. He moved onward to find his wife.

Charney returned the pistol to its holster. He could feel the warmth from its barrel and smell the carbon from the single shot.

One down, one more to go.

Enjoying his thought and moving with a purpose, he had to get to the cellar before Michael did.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

SOMEONE WOULD DIE
IN SONIA’S CELL

S
onia heard the footsteps coming closer.

They stopped at the door. She saw the shadows cast by the person’s feet through the bottom of the door’s frame, as they perforated the only open space of her cell.

She pressed her back harder into the stone wall, knowing full well that doing so amounted to nothing. It was merely a protective instinct. There was no escape, no avoiding what—
who
—was coming. She had grown accustomed to being afraid, but this time it was worse. Sonia heard the high-pitched grating of a key being slipped into the door’s lock.

Her heart palpitated unevenly as the tumblers of the lock turned.

He was coming into her prison. She couldn’t breathe and gulped with near futility for air.

Frantically, she snapped her head to the left and then to the right; her eyes darted wildly. She grasped childishly at the bulbous, cold walls. If she were looking in from the outside, the scene would have either amused or terrified her: there was nowhere that she could possibly go and likewise nothing that she could fathom to do.

But yet she erratically clawed at nothing and searched for something.

Her fear took over; it consumed her as the door cracked slowly open.

She gasped meekly, “No, no!” Sonia’s pleas mattered little to Charney. The sight of the frantic and feeble woman with her back smashed into the wall came across as comical to him. He owned her emotions, her destiny.

Sonia was broken from her captivity; she couldn’t recognize herself through her actions. She didn’t feel like the strong woman she knew she was.

The stone room lit brightly; it was the first real light that Sonia’s eyes had seen in nearly two days. She knew her pupils had dilated quickly at the onslaught of the light, but she was unaware that it would hurt so much and closed her eyes in defense as the room was showered in painful brightness.

Before she could re-open them, she heard him move to her; she felt his strong hands yank her from the wall and spin her around. She felt the roughness from the short stubble on his cheeks and chin scratch across her skin.

His breathing was heavy, but controlled, and ubiquitous; it smelled of tobacco and citrus, a combination of her abductor’s last cigarette and bottle of consumed wine.

It made her think of Michael and his rugged face, of the wine that she often smelled on his breath. The fear that she had made her next reaction odd: she smiled.

Michael.
There could only be one reason why her abductor had suddenly appeared. It had to be.

But the smile soon faded, quickly replaced with the return of the fear that had haunted her for the previous forty-eight hours.

“Mrs. Sterling.” The thief’s words were baritone and smooth, his accent French: “It would seem that we have a guest.”

“Doctor,” she spat defiantly and was surprised at her terse response.

Charney smiled at what strength his captive had left. “Pardon me,
Doctor
Sterling, it would seem that my manners have escaped me. Forgive me for my disrespect.”

A flash of silver cut the space a few inches in front of her eyes. He pulled her closer; she could feel the hardness of his strong body. He was tense and putting himself at the ready. This much was certain.

When she could focus, she could clearly see the long knife from the corner of her left eye. It made her body go rigid.

“Easy, Dr. Sterling,” her abductor’s voice came across in a calming fashion as he judged correctly her fear of the blade. “You wouldn’t want to cause any unnecessary problems, now, would you?”

He pointed with the knife’s tip toward the cell’s door and commanded, “Watch, si’l vous plait. It will only be a moment.”

Ahead and through the door, the light from the hallway poured into her cell. Her eyes adjusted more, and she could see that the floor of the hallway was a gleaming white marble.

Her abductor’s humid breath splashed slowly down her neck; her skin tingled at the wet, hot air. His breathing was steady. She could sense that his focus was on the door.

Hers was too.

She stared ahead as they both awaited their guest.

It felt like an eternity, but it was only a matter of the moments, as the thief had promised. The unmistakable sound of a door opening could be heard in the distance. Then it closed.

Footsteps grew louder.

Sonia squirmed uneasily; Charney squeezed her painfully tighter, reminding her that he was in control.

The light pouring in from the hallway broke. A shadow flickered into the cell. The footsteps atop the marble were uneven—a bit of a shuffle—and they drew closer.

Outside, in the hallway, Michael saw the opened door to the cell. His pistol was drawn and pointed forward. His eyes gazed down its barrel, and expertly he aligned both its rear and forward sights. The blackness of the room at the end of the hallway poured through the open door. The air was dank and smelled of an old unused cellar. His heart raced as he stared into the door, more so as he moved closer.

His thigh was beyond burning; there were no words to describe the dead appendage. His entire leg had stiffened into uselessness, and he was forced to drag it along with each step. The muscles that striated his thigh were constricted and no longer heeded his command.

The leg was now a liability, the pain incessant.

He didn’t care.

He was at the end. He knew that his options had diminished to none. Either Sonia was in the room just ahead, or he was dead.

She would be too.

It was that simple.

Over the end of his weapon’s barrel, he focused.

His breathing grew increasingly labored, and his heart beat erratically. The roof of his mouth felt as rough as any barren desert, and his skin seemed both cold and hot at the same time.

But she was close; he knew it.

He squeezed the grip of the pistol forcibly.

Toward the opened door he moved, dragging himself atop a leg that no longer worked, with a body that was failing and a heart nearly destroyed.