The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) by Nagle Joseph

Author:Nagle, Joseph [Nagle, Joseph]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2012-12-19T15:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

STAMPS & COINS

LEAVING LISBON

Charney smirked as he slowly drove past the federal police manhandling the innocent driver.

He slowed down even more—rubbernecking was a natural human tendency—but one of the federal police angrily waved him by.

He nodded at the policeman, but the officer ignored his civility. “Clever, Dr. Sterling; I applaud your ingenuity.”

Charney hadn’t needed to steal a car. His rental (in the name of Juan Lapin) sufficed just fine. Pressing the gas pedal much closer to the floorboard, he sped up. It took a bit longer, to his nervous dissatisfaction, to catch up to the men.

They were driving fast, really fast.

But he saw them about six hundred meters down the highway. The unique taillights and boxy frame of the Bentley’s rear end gave them away. Charney stayed a safe distance behind a small C-Class Mercedes, content enough that he had a visual. But soon, he realized the Mercedes wasn’t going fast enough; the Bentley was pulling away.

“Ah, merde!” he spat out, downshifting. Hastily he made his way around the Mercedes and sped up to keep pace.

“Doc?” York asked, breaking the silence.

Michael had been sleeping. He was exhausted, and his body was overcome by fatigue; the moment the two men were on the highway, his eyelids had become heavy. The moment that they were closed, he had drifted into bliss.

His dream was about Sonia.

He was scared for her; he knew she was for him, too. This had been in his dream. He was reaching out to touch her face, to calm her, to let her know he was on his way to her. But every time his hand was about to feel the warmth of her skin, she seemed just out of reach.

When Michael woke, the dream still felt real—he really wanted to feel her, to somehow make it real.

Sleep still filled his voice. “What is it, kid?”

“Why are we going to Granada—what’s there?”

Michael sat a bit more upright. He had slumped a bit in his slumber. “How far have we gone?”

“About an hour—about a hundred-thirty miles.”

Michael rubbed his eyes and checked out his face in the visor’s mirror. “Pushing it a bit, eh?”

Never taking his eyes from the road, York smirked. “It’s easy with this car. It feels like we’re hardly moving.”

The cabin was silent for a moment.

York couldn’t wait; he wanted an answer and repeated his question. “So why Granada, Doc?”

Michael fumbled through his pocket and pulled out the medallion. He flipped it over a couple of times in his hand. He thought of the Special Activities Division operative in the black Yukon who had given it to him. “This is taking us there, kid.”

Michael stretched.

York was getting restless; he wanted answers, and he was trying not to appear impatient—to be puerile—so he waited.

“What do you know about stamps?” Michael finally asked.

“Just that they are outdated; everything’s done by e-mail nowadays,” answered York.

Michael cocked his head in agreement and continued, “Stamps and coins, they all have the same purpose: to feed the egos of the elite, to remind us of them.

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