The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (66 page)

Sonia took a deep sip of the coffee and relished the rich flavor of the Italian roast. Cupping the coffee between her small hands and enjoying its warmth, she asked, “Colonel, I presume the castle was lost again?”

“The rival family I speak of had little power during that period, but was fortunate to find one of their members skillfully placed on the papal throne in the late seventeenth century—he was anointed Innocent XI. Not long afterward, the new pope’s nephew was named Holy Roman Emperor; he then returned the home to my family. Since that point, the home has there remained.”

Sonia furrowed her brow; York picked up on it, too, and it was he who asked the question, albeit it came out in a condescending fashion: “I thought you said that this castle has been fought over by two families! But if the nephew of the pope was in your family, and the pope was from the other family, how is that possible—Colonel?”

Sonia shot York a glare.

Michael wanted to slap the back of his head.

The colonel wasn’t fazed and actually showed a bit of palpable humor. He smiled slightly and nodded to Michael as if to allow him to give the answer.

Michael willingly obliged and said, “He never said that the two families were unrelated, kid.” But he was really saying
mind your fucking manners, you little shit!

“Let me guess, Dr. Sterling,” interjected the colonel, “this must be
the
Staff Sergeant York you’ve told me all about?”

The colonel stood and extended his hand over the table to the young Green Beret. “It is my pleasure to finally meet you.”

York knew his mistake the moment he grasped hands with the colonel. The colonel’s grip was like iron. His hand was diminutive in the colonel’s, whose hand was coarse from years of labor and thick from overuse; his grip was strong and told of real and unquestionable strength. The colonel held the young soldier’s hand firmly, a bit longer and harder than would be considered socially acceptable.

It hurt a bit, but York bit the inside of his cheek and took it the way a Green Beret was trained; he didn’t want to show how much it pained him. Finally letting go, having made his point, the colonel picked up the coffee server and poured a fresh cup. Pushing it over to York, he insisted, “Please, everyone who comes to my home must try my coffee. I picked and roasted the beans myself. I would be offended if you didn’t at least try it.”

All were quiet; York was uneasy. The colonel was claiming the dominant role.

York acquiesced.

If he were a canine, his long, furry tail would be thrust so far between his legs his testes wouldn’t be visible. Not being a dog, York displayed the human’s version of submission. He picked up the small porcelain cup and sipped as he was asked to do—even though he hated coffee.

Setting his cup down, Michael leaned forward. “You said you were expecting me, Colonel: why?” It was time for business.

“Dr. Sterling, when Notre Dame was destroyed, I thought of only one thing.”

“The Crown of Thorns,” interrupted York.

The colonel didn’t mind his impetuous nature and nodded in the affirmative. “I had my suspicions, Staff Sergeant, but it was when the shroud disappeared that I knew.”

“What did you know, Colonel?” inquired Michael, wanting to hear it from a member of the Watchmen.

“That the Order was involved, of course. There is no other possibility. They have wanted the crown and the shroud for centuries; that much the Watchmen have known. We have worked to keep them from them, but not well enough, I’m afraid. I made some quiet inquiries with my colleagues and learned what I could, which wasn’t much. But then I saw that act of lunacy you pulled with the senator—”

“You saw that?”

“Dr. Sterling, the entire world saw it. You have become some sort of folk hero, by the way. The Internet is ablaze with that grainy video. Everyone wants to know who in the hell you are! Most of the world has taken an anti-America stance in recent years; all of Europe is in love with you. Some sort of modern, apolitical Robin Hood you’ve become.”

“How did you know it was me then?” asked Michael, feeling his face blush slightly.

Sonia rolled her eyes. She knew her husband; Michael loved the newfound attention.

The colonel replied almost casually, “You are the only one I know crazed enough to drag a man by his hair out of a fourth-floor window, and when I saw that it was Senator Faust that you had by the scalp, I did the math. I’ve had my suspicions about the senator for some time. The deaths of Senator Door and France’s president, along with the theft of the crown and the shroud, could be no coincidence and he was in Paris for a reason. The Order has made their move, and Senator Faust is in their grips. He is their pawn.”

Michael wanted more answers and interrogated, “The origin of the crown and the shroud are separated by nearly fourteen centuries—how are they related?”

The colonel didn’t answer.

This time it was Sonia. She understood almost immediately. “Oh my God! It’s not
how
they are related, it’s to
whom
they relate, isn’t it, Colonel?”

Michael and York looked at each other first before casting their stares at Sonia. The colonel sat back and gestured for her to continue.

Sonia didn’t skip a beat. “Apart, the crown and the shroud mean little; just bits of history laced with conjecture and some presumption. They both point to Christ, but we know that’s not the case.”

“How so?” interrupted York, suddenly intrigued.

This time Michael answered. “Kid, science has easily proven that the image on the shroud is not that of Christ’s. It may look like the generally accepted image of him, but it’s entirely too young. The shroud dates from the fourteenth century, whereas Christ was believed to have lived in the early first century. There is no way the image on the shroud is Christ’s.”

Sonia regained the floor from her husband and directed her words toward the colonel. “Three years ago, my husband was blamed for assassinating the ayatollah. There was an attempt on the pope’s life, too. But it was the Order who was behind both actions, and they wanted something rather badly.”

“The Hand of Christ,” responded the colonel.

Michael added, “The Order wanted a vellum that proved Christ didn’t die on the cross; that he had a lineage—that he had fathered children.”

“This is what you meant, Sonia, isn’t it?” questioned the colonel. “The thefts are about to
whom
they relate.”

Sonia poured another cup of coffee as all of the men watched her carefully. When finished, she spoke, but this time it wasn’t as the wife of the deputy director of the Clandestine Services: it was as a doctor, as a professional and highly educated scientist. “The Order has stolen the crown and the shroud to create a genetic connection between them, not to prove that they were both worn by Christ.”

The colonel offered a single and slow nod.

York was a bit confused. “I don’t understand. How can the two artifacts create a connection with Christ and his descendants?”

It was at this point that Michael removed from his pocket the medallion he had been given and the vellum he had taken from Queen Isabelle’s decayed fingers. He laid them gently on the dark wood of the table.

The colonel’s eyes widened at the sight of them.

Sonia leaned over to York and answered his question in a whispered voice, “Science, Jonathon. The crown and shroud may both have remnants of DNA on them. If so, the DNA can be tested and would create a genetic map of those remnants. Put side by side, they can be compared and offer proof of a familial relationship—Christ’s family.”

York understood. He jumped to his feet and violently kicked away the old wooden chair, causing Sonia to startle and to nearly spill her coffee. “So my men were killed, and we are risking our fucking lives, so some group of assholes can validate their fucking family tree?!”

Michael stared with ire at the child in a man’s body who stood red-faced before them. “Take it easy, kid. It goes a bit deeper than that. We are talking about
the
family tree.” Michael pointed to the chair, which lay on its side, and barked, “Now pick up that chair and sit back down!”

York ignored the command. “I don’t give a shit if it’s a goddamn orange grove of solid gold fruit, because all I’ve seen in the last couple of days is a lot of people dying for no damn good reason at all! And we’re sitting here sipping coffee from expensive porcelain with our pinkies in the air and casually eating fucking olives in a castle with one of them! I’m sorry, Colonel, if that offends your sensibilities, but when I look at you, I only see one of those assholes that condone killing to chase bullshit fairy tales!”

The colonel stared back furiously; his teeth were clamped together. It took all of his strength to stay in his seat.

Sonia quickly stood, recognizing the signs of two men about to lose control, and put her hand on York’s arm. Her face showed a slight ripple of fear mixed with sadness, but her voice was soothing and controlled. “Take it easy, Jonathon, please. I know you’ve lost some good people, men—friends—you were close to; I can’t imagine how that must feel. I really can’t. For whatever reason, we have been forced into this maddening situation, but there will be time to grieve, Jonathon, I promise. Right now, I’m scared, and I could really use your strength. I need you to stay focused, because if you lose it, I think I might, too.” Sonia gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

York was angry; he had every right to be. Inside, all that he could think about was how he wanted nothing more than to be at home with his wife Elizabeth and how he wished that he and his men had never been sent to that cave in Afghanistan. He felt Sonia’s warm hand on his arm; her gentle touch reminded him of his wife’s. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t resist and let her guide him slowly to his overturned chair. Almost begrudgingly, he righted the chair and retook his seat. York growled toward Michael while pointing a stiffened index finger at him. “I want to end this; I want to find the assholes responsible for putting me in the middle of their bullshit club. You said this goes deeper: enlighten me,” he said, and then added for effect, “please.”

Michael picked up the medallion and handed it to Colonel Camini; the colonel’s eyes latched on to York’s. Both men didn’t waver as the colonel took the medallion from where it sat on the table. A few long moments ticked by before the colonel turned his attention to it.

York didn’t look away; his chest heaved slightly from the anger still flowing rapidly in him.

The colonel continued to slowly and meticulously study every part of the medallion. He turned it over from one side to the other and back again and then cupped it between both, as if osmosis would bring an answer to their questions.

Finally, he asked, “The engravings; what do they mean, Michael?”

“The first one—Tanto Monta—was easy,” replied Michael.

“They amount to the same,” added the colonel. “Yes, this one is simple: Queen Isabelle and King Ferdinand.”

York’s memory fleeted to Granada and the tomb of the Catholic Monarchs; it was there that they had found the vellum.

“And the other one, what do you make of it?” asked the colonel.

“I was hoping that you could tell me.”

The colonel read the engraving out loud, “From Four to Fifteen: Ten are Lost Forever.” He scratched his head and then added pithily, “I’ve no idea.”

“But you do know to whom the medallion belonged, don’t you?”

The colonel laid down the medallion slowly and thought about his response. He stared blankly at Michael as if calculating whether or not he should divulge the answer.

He didn’t get the chance.

Michael picked up the medallion and did so for him. “In 1578, a young king—King Sebastian the First of Portugal—went missing in a battle that took place just inland from the coast of the Mediterranean in North Africa. His body was never found. This medallion hung around the neck of Sebastian and can be seen in a painting by Alonso Sanchez Coello of the king when the king was about twenty-one years old.”

The colonel continued the story. “It was the medallion worn by each master of the Order of Christ, but was last seen, as you’ve just mentioned, around the neck of King Sebastian in the late sixteenth century. The Order has searched for his body for four centuries.”

“To create the DNA link,” Sonia stated.

“With the advancements in modern technology, yes, that is what they precisely intend to do,” the colonel added.

York jumped in. “But you don’t know what that other engraving means?”

“I’m afraid not, Staff Sergeant.” The colonel tapped the words and finished his thought. “The two engravings were etched at different times. The styles of the etchings are not the same; that much I can tell you.”

“I’m hoping that this might help,” added Michael.

On the antique table, Michael opened the vellum and flattened it so that it could be read. Across the top of the vellum, the words
Revelation 14:9
were written in a faded crimson ink.

“What do you know of this?” quizzed Michael.

The colonel studied the vellum and its words, but not for content. He saw something else; his eyes shook slightly. There was anger in his voice as he recognized something, but his tone was even when he said, “This was made at the Vatican.”