The Diaries - 01

by Chuck Driskell

  Jean’s voice was soothing, knowing. “Yes, yes, Matthew, once I found the secret little squad you served with, I backtracked, finding your original identity. I know where you trained, where you served, and where you grew up.”

  Gage tried to control his breathing.

  “Other than bashing Americans, the world’s second favorite pastime is, as I said, underestimating the French. I’d suggest you try not to do it in the future.” Jean dropped the cigarette to the floor, crushing it with his foot. The pistol lowered just a bit.

  Knowing eye movement would spook Jean, Gage held his gaze steadily on the Frenchman. His only actions, other than heavy breathing, took place in his mind.

  “I’ve read the unedited Crete report, Gage. Or Matthew.” Jean ran his tongue over his narrow teeth. “You prefer Gage, don’t you?”

  Gage felt his cheek twitch involuntarily.

  Jean cleared his throat, continuing. “The mission success in Crete was rated as neutral to good. Would’ve gotten four green stars had the two kids not died.”

  Gage’s heart raced and he could feel the heat growing from within his neck and face. He swallowed once, keeping his bubbling stomach acid at bay.

  Jean twirled the pistol at Gage’s head. “What we do is imperfect, Gage. Sometimes our tasks are impossible, unwinnable. Like Metz. It was unwinnable, because of the repercussions you’re soon going to have to deal with. But I can help you; I’ll come back to that.” Jean indulged himself in another cigarette, tapping it out carefully in the contrast of the musky room. “Now back to Crete: if intel and spotters give you a green light, how are you supposed to know there are two kids sleeping under a blanket on the floor?” Jean’s eyes searched upward, the pistol wavering as he appeared to be recalling what he had read. “So, when you got the green, you lobbed a flash-bang, trying to preserve life before your team brought the threat of sure death through the front door of those quasi-terrorists. But the concussion grenades are made to stop an eighty-five kilo man, not a child. You couldn’t have known, Gage.”

  Gage’s mind was a clutter of emotions, but like a professional athlete or a stage actor during a time of great distraction, he forced himself to focus on the current situation. He remained silent and still.

  Jean pinched the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, narrowing his eyes at the American and shrugging. “You don’t have to accept my compassion. But I certainly hope you will at least accept my help.”

  Finally ready to say something, Gage chose his words carefully. “You’ve lowered yourself to being the tool of professional criminals. You’re their whore, and you’re trying to convince me that you’re here to help me?”

  Jean’s face blackened. “Back to Crete, then. And when those two collateral deaths made their way up the chain, they dissolved your little team of assassins, leaving you heavily debriefed, broke, without the sponsorship of the country you had so faithfully served, and without a job.” Jean chuckled, shaking his head. “The arrogant, self-centered Americans…I even heard they threatened to indict anyone from your team who ever talked—said they would call your team a rogue element and if anyone ever spoke of it they would slap you with murder indictments.” Jean exhaled loudly, his posture relaxing. “I’m sorry, Gage, but the superiority and vanity of your government is a bit humorous to me.”

  Gage only blinked.

  “So now what do you do? Cowering in fear from your imperialist régime, you take any job—any nonviolent job—that you can get. But there aren’t many, so it leaves you without means. And now your desperate situation causes you to compromise your ethics and includes stealing—from me—and now that one bad action has led to three murders.”

  Gage narrowed his eyes.

  “Oh, that number doesn’t add up?” Jean asked, his pointy teeth sparkling in his grin. “Leon, Michel the book dealer, and his employee.”

  Gage remained emotionless but knew Jean was now quite dialed in and reading even the dilations of his pupils.

  “Oh yes, I didn’t tell you that,” Jean said, mockingly helpfully. “Nicky killed him yesterday and learned all about you and your little whore…after the man was cruelly tortured, of course.”

  Chewing his tongue, Gage pushed aside the gut-wrenching ache that an innocent’s death awoke in him. He took heavier breaths. Stay here, Gage. Don’t wander. His temples began to burn; pressure redlining in his skull. “Why don’t you get to the supposed part about how exactly you’re going to help me?”

  “The über-valuable diaries, Gage: I’m going to take them from you, and then I’m going to give them to the Glaives. Afterward, you’re going to disappear and I will use my resources to make you die, or so they will think. Once Nicky has your little dowry, he’ll relent. I can guarantee it.”

  Gage snorted his laughter. It was forced, completely for effect, before he drew out his two-word response, making sure his face looked puzzled yet also relieved as he asked, “What diaries?”

  Jean was skilled, but he wasn’t so accomplished a performer as to prevent the momentary flash of fear that shot across his face. It was as if he’d been jolted, if only for a fraction of a second, by a current of electricity. When Gage asked him, ”What diaries?”, Jean’s inner greed won out. The query obviously caused a thunderbolt of fear to run through the French agent that perhaps he had the entire situation figured wrong.

  After the moment had passed, Jean recovered nicely. “The cache of diaries that made the dead book dealer cream in his bikini underwear, Gage. Those diaries.” He inched closer. “I know the Glaives are just mobsters, but trust me, they’ll figure out how to squeeze the value out of them.”

  “They’re gone, Jean.” There it was again. Jean, like Michel (and like a needful junkie), was intoxicated by his habit—in this case, greed. “But had I not already given them away,” Gage studied him, “how much of their value were you going to skim after you auctioned them off?”

  Jean lifted the pistol head high, licking his upper lip. Before he responded, as his nervous habit dictated, he used his left hand to raise the cigarette to his mouth. He took a long pull. It was the precise moment Gage had been waiting for: Jean had grown relaxed, focusing more on a clever response than watching the dangerous man before him.

  Covering the six feet in a fraction of a second, Gage unleashed an old-fashioned right hook with a closed fist, connecting with the left side of Jean’s long jaw, sending the cigarette helicoptering to the floor in a hail of sparks. The punch was true and, as Jean’s central nervous system performed as it was designed, spiking momentarily, Jean’s knees buckled, sending him to the floor as his lungs expelled the smoke. Gage snatched a spade from the wall, flipping it upside down and swinging the wooden handle into the back of Jean’s head with a solid thud.

  He retrieved a rag from a workbench, spraying it with WD-40. With the rag, he wiped the handle of the spade and replaced it. Then he checked Jean’s pulse; it was strong as the Frenchman returned to a twilight state, moaning softly. He’d be fully awake again soon.

  Gage took the pistol and rifled Jean’s pockets, taking a cell phone, Jean’s wallet, all loose change, and even his lighter and cigarettes. Finally he took Jean’s keys, stepping from the shed and tossing them onto the roof of the adjacent two-story building.

  “That’ll keep you busy for a little while,” Gage said, as he slid the sunglasses back on. The outside of the room had a hasp and a hanging padlock. Gage shut it, clicking the padlock and wiping it with the rag.

  As he jogged back to the car, Gage tossed Jean’s belongings into the back of a moving garbage truck, keeping only his revolver. Jean’s knowledge of his past was stunning, making Gage’s mind race through his options. The situation was far worse than he could have imagined.

  ***

  Just as Gage had been listening to Jean’s gratuitous description of the Glaives’ emasculation methods, Monika fidgeted in the car, smoking a cigarette and enjoying the cold breeze from the car’s open window. Her mind raced over all that had happened in t
he previous three days. The high of making love to the man she had loved for quite some time was shattered by the low of the violent incident in Metz—and the horrific death of her cousin. When they were just kids, she and Michel had played for hours on end at the family Christmas gatherings. He was six years her senior and, when she was a teenager, he confided in her that he was gay. And while they had not been close for several years, mainly due to his move to France, she grieved for him and could not completely believe that he had been in bed with criminals.

  She pulled her hair back in a taut ponytail, staring at her cell phone. The girls at work would be going crazy to find her, and nothing will kill a good clientele faster than an undependable stylist. As she pitched the cigarette out the window, she thumbed her cell phone on for just one quick call. She shook her head, ashamed. But it was only one call. How could that hurt anything? After the signal came back, she pressed the two button on her speed dial, rubbing the gathered tears from her eyes as the phone rang.

  “Hello?” came the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Nicole, it’s Monika.”

  “Where have you been?” Nicole hissed. She was co-owner of the salon and worked at the front, greeting people and making appointments. “Your customers have been calling and showing up. We tried notifying everyone in the book but some haven’t gotten the message. And your damned phone has been turned off. Silvie even went to your flat looking for you.”

  Monika couldn’t hide the fact she had been crying. “I’m sorry, Nicole, really I am. Something completely unexpected came up—an emergency—and I have been out of phone coverage.”

  “Are you okay?” Nicole asked, her anger turning to concern after hearing her friend’s tone.

  “I am okay, Nicole. And I hope to be back tomorrow, or maybe Friday. Please cover for me and, if you have gaps in your schedule, can you please take my appointments?”

  Finished with her arrangements, Monika saw Gage running from across the road. She quickly said goodbye to Nicole, promising to check back in later. Frantically, Monika waved the remains of the smoky air from the car. That done, she clicked the phone shut and dropped it into her purse. Gage’s face was flushed and he nearly dove into the car before cranking the engine. Without preamble, he spun the tires and motored down the street, away from his neighborhood.

  As they drove into the center of Frankfurt, each with their mind firmly ensconced in a set of major, yet different, problems, Monika’s mobile phone exchanged steady signals to each of the cellular towers they passed. When the phone informed a new tower it was within range, the previous tower would hand off the signal, as happened millions of times each day all around the world. The signals, when triangulated properly, could reveal the mobile phone’s position to an accuracy of five meters.

  But only if someone was tracking them.

  Chapter 8

  Paris, France

  The café was Nicky’s favorite in all of Paris. Located just off the Rue de Rivoli, the family of owners loathed him, though they certainly weren’t brave enough to show it. They hid their distaste well, fawning over him and his guests every time he entered in the late afternoon for his lengthy visit. The interior of the café was marked by heavy timbers and blood red accents. Intimate and situated partially underground, high windows displayed lower legs and swinging shopping bags as people bustled on the sidewalk of the crowded Parisian thoroughfare. A fire burned in the fireplace, wafting wisps of bluish smoke around the darkened restaurant as jazz played lightly from the piped-in stereo.

  In front of Nicky was a bottle of red wine, barely touched. He was too angry to eat, swirling his glass as he awaited word from someone. Marcel sat across from him, eating sole and drenching his bread in the delicious white wine sauce as if nothing were the matter.

  “How can you be so hungry?” Nicky asked with a sneer.

  Marcel froze in mid-bite. He knew Nicky well enough to know this particular challenging tone. Swallowing slowly, Marcel took a sip of water and pushed the plate aside. “You’re right, Nicky. I’m not hungry.”

  “And why have we not heard anything yet?” Nicky screamed at full-volume, standing and throwing his cellular phone across the room. It missed the smoky fire, exploding into pieces on the enormous stone hearth. The patrons turned, their eyes wide at the outburst. The two goons standing behind Nicky’s table locked eyes with the diners; each person turned their attention back to their plates, speaking in the quietest of tones about anything but the savage little man sitting by the back wall.

  Marcel made a call and spoke briefly and quietly into his own phone, his face pained as he listened. Finally, after appearing hopeful at the end of the call he hung up and looked at Nicky. “Nothing from Jean, but Günther, the other asset in Germany, may be on to something. He said he’ll call back as soon as he is sure.”

  The tablecloth pulled taut as Nicky clenched it, balling his fists in anger. Marcel watched him carefully, knowing that something was bound to give sooner or later. Nicky Arnaud wasn’t the type of man who could release anger unaided. Like a well-sealed boiler that has built up too much pressure, Nicky needed a violent or physical release for his anger…

  “Who is she?” Nicky asked, his stubby finger pointing to someone behind Marcel’s left shoulder.

  Marcel turned and looked at the two employees standing near the water stand at the front of the restaurant. An older lady who had worked there as long as he could remember; standing next to her, a young woman that might have been pushing twenty. She appeared to be at least half African, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, showcasing a face and neck of smooth, light-brown skin. Marcel guessed her to be one of France’s millions of guest workers, probably quite poor and unable to speak the language very well. The two women weren’t even waitresses, just helpers who filled empty water glasses and occasionally scraped breadcrumbs from the white linen tablecloths. They were talking to one another in hushed tones, no doubt about Nicky and his outburst.

  “Never seen her,” Marcel said, turning back, hoping Nicky would drop it.

  “I want her.”

  “Which one?” Marcel asked, pressing his luck while catching a whiff of the delicious fish he was so rudely prevented from finishing.

  “Don’t be a wise-ass,” Nicky said. “Go get her for me.”

  Marcel closed his eyes, wishing he were elsewhere, like New Zealand, perhaps, on a mountaintop, alone, forever. “I’ll get her when we leave.”

  “Not later. Are you fucking deaf? I want her right now.” Nicky stood and dropped his napkin on the table. “I’ll be in the men’s room.” He disappeared around the corner and down the narrow stairway that led further underground to the restrooms carved into the limestone earth.

  Marcel gulped water before clenching his eyes shut and rubbing his temples. He wondered what made Nicky the way he was, remembering that he, long ago, decided that it had to have been a significant case of child abuse. He took two large bites of the fish, washing it down with white wine before standing and crossing the floor as he buttoned the jacket of his coat. With a wave of his hand, he signaled the older busgirl to take a hike.

  Marcel cleared his throat, offering the other one a tight smile. Then, leaning close to her ear and whispering, he saw the young girl’s eyes go wide at his proposition. She shook her head, looking at him with doe-like eyes full of fear and disgust.

  He straightened, stepping back with his hands folded in front of him. His eyes closed as he nodded.

  The girl’s hand went to her neck, rubbing it as she glanced about nervously. Marcel reached into his pocket and pressed a wad of money into her hand, whispering to her as he leaned in again. “I’d suggest, in the strongest terms, that you get down there and do what he wants. Go now and he’ll probably be gentle.”

  Her French was better than he thought, and he could smell her sweet breath coming in huffs while panic began to set in. She pulled away again, shaking her head back and forth in short, quick motions. “No, I can’t,” she said softl
y, with little conviction in her voice, her eyes cutting down to the roll of euros balled in her hand.

  Marcel raised his eyebrows, turning to the older lady who was watching the exchange from a short distance by the bar. The girl followed his gaze, turning her large eyes to the older worker. Marcel watched the woman’s wizened face. She was old and homely but smart enough to know, even from a distance, what was happening. Her beady brown eyes were moist as she nodded once to the young girl.

  The girl swallowed thickly, surveying the room to see if anyone had noticed. While some of the more observant patrons had been carefully watching the delicate exchange, they were smart enough to pretend they weren’t. After a few deep breaths, the young woman reached under her apron, stuffing the money into her pocket before crossing the room and unhurriedly heading down the stairs.

  Marcel sat back down, embarrassed over what had just occurred. At least he could now have a few moments of peace. Taking advantage of it, he began cramming the rest of the now cold fish into his mouth, taking great gulps of water and wine.

  There had been a time when Marcel would have turned more of a blind eye to Nicky’s actions. Especially back when he was still climbing the organizational ladder. In the Glaives, one need not abhor violence if one hoped to attain status. And while Marcel used the sword sparingly and justly, seeing Nicky out of control had long ago begun to wear on him. Marcel grew up with a mother and father. Poverty-stricken, their marriage shaken by his mother’s alcoholism, his parents had at least done a fair job of teaching him right from wrong. It wasn’t long after he turned twenty that the neighborhood Glaives recruited him, and because of his intelligence and calm demeanor, Marcel moved parallel with Nicky, climbing the levels of the organization quickly.

  The profession of career criminal is not unlike many potentially violent occupations because, naturally, aggressive men tend to gravitate toward it. Some people, for whatever reason, enjoy the idea of inflicting pain. Marcel Cherbourg wasn’t one of those men. To him, violence was a useful tool, but to be used sparingly. It was much more effective that way.