The leggy Swede awaited him, posing with one of her long legs jutting provocatively through the slit in her dress. Xavier closed the distance quickly, glancing back to see Amando, staring from across the room. With a fluttering finger wave Xavier led his date through the double doors, quietly shutting them and placing an index finger over his lips. His date silently questioned him and he made a motion for patience.
Guiding his date forward, keeping her on the carpet runner, Xavier walked on the hard floor, so that only his set of footsteps was audible. Column after column passed until the broad area with natural light was upon them.
There was a final corner concealing the scene.
What will we find around the corner? Xavier wondered, barely able to keep himself from laughing.
As they continued forward, they passed the corner and the decorative sofa came into view. Sitting on the sofa, leaning back, naked as the day she was born, was Amando Segura’s wife. Her hands trembled beside her, as it seemed it was paining her not to cover herself.
Though he had a plan that he intended to stick to, Xavier couldn’t help but feel his pulse rate spike. The wife was actually quite attractive in the nude and, judging by what he knew of the diminutive Amando, Xavier could think of no way he was coming close to pleasuring this wholesome woman twenty years his junior. While she didn’t have the lean, hard body of his Swedish date, Amando’s wife possessed a natural figure without excess weight. Her breasts were large and firm and, setting Xavier off, was a small hoop navel ring that told him she was possibly promiscuous and might have been secretly excited over this encounter.
But it was not to be. Xavier had created the entire ruse to humiliate Amando.
Feeling his date stiffen and gasp sharply at the ribald sight, Xavier eyed Amando’s wife and said, “My dear, I’m not sure what you’re doing but you really should get dressed. Someone might be offended by your nudity and I saw a number of children in there.” Holding his date’s arm, they continued on.
The Swede turned back as they walked, making a vulgar gesture at Amando’s wife and saying, “Hora!” They passed through another set of double doors as Xavier surveyed the rooms.
At the very rear of the massive museum, Xavier led his date into a vacant choir chamber, taking her right there on a bench. The images of Amando’s wife and the buxom young woman the acusador had been cajoling danced in his mind, fueling his lust.
Also flitting through his otherwise endorphin flooded brain were images of what would happen once he finally located his arch-nemesis, the cowardly Ernesto Navarro.
With the intensity of a rabid wolf, Xavier howled with pleasure upon his climax. His blissful wail was heard by nearly every remaining guest at the reception.
Chapter Three
El Prat Airport, Barcelona
During his first-ever trip while seated in business class, Gage learned that the exclusive front-of-the-aircraft seating afforded passengers a multitude of benefits. From the lie-flat seats to the constant service of food and booze, Gage could tell the airline had worked diligently to make sure that an average passenger who happened to be flying in the front would debark and immediately swear to never fly coach again. While he felt the service was a bit overdone, especially on an eastbound flight that traveled through the night, Gage could see why some people would opt to pay a severe multiple of the coach price just for the lie-flat seat alone.
Gage had performed memorization work during the first portion of the flight. Though he despised it—it elicited bad memories of high school biology exams—memorization was one of the most important preparations for his type of work. After memorizing phone numbers and names, he scanned images from Google Earth, studying each of the seaside cities and the restaurant he planned to use for the first meeting. Then he studied avenues of approach, of escape, and landmarks.
Satisfied that he had everything down pat, Gage eventually slept. Having no need for May’s featured wine, an Italian Piemonte, he had shooed his flight attendant away three hours into the nine-hour flight, telling her to discontinue his service so he could get a little rest. Thankfully for Gage (and setting off a memory about another flight he’d once been on) there were no unruly passengers aboard this flight, and he could feel his mind slowing to a point where he’d eventually slumbered.
Though he’d have loved to have gotten six hours of sleep, he managed about four, sleeping fitfully despite all the features that had been provided to make him comfortable. It wasn’t the airline’s fault—he blamed himself. This was the first time he had traveled back to Europe since the business with the diaries, and Monika. Understandably, his nerves were slightly on edge. This time, however, his destination was not Germany or France. The 767 he was aboard had just parked at the Terminal 1 gate of Barcelona’s sprawling El Prat airport.
Upon clearing customs with his counterfeit passport, Gage stepped to his flight’s luggage carousel where he retrieved two large suitcases, already on the revolving belt, both wrapped in purple ribbons and appearing stuffed to the gills. He hoisted his carry-on onto the top of the two suitcases and made a pit stop at the restroom, donning a loud Hawaiian shirt from his suitcase. He shook out a droopy ball cap, tugging it down over his hair, then began the trek to the main terminal, purposefully walking adjacent to a garishly-dressed vacationing woman in her mid-fifties.
There were additional customs officers at the exit but they paid him no heed. With his showy clothing and large suitcases, Gage looked absolutely nothing like an arriving mercenary. He stepped into the throng outside the secure area, estimating that there were sixty people awaiting arriving passengers. To the right stood a row of drivers, each holding a sign. Gage noted the one holding the sign for “Harris,” the name he was supposed to be traveling under.
Pressing forward through the crowd, staying next to the woman, Gage glanced left, seeing another man well behind the crowd. He was leaning against an advertisement-adorned column, his eyes narrowed as he studied each passenger coming through the door. Gage glimpsed the man’s illuminated iPhone, held low and half-concealed. As Gage continued to walk, he angled behind the man. The man lifted the phone, mimicking the actions of a person typing a quick text or email. But he was checking the photo, and the photo was none other than Gage Hartline, almost certainly taken surreptitiously and, from what Gage could tell, at some point in the last year.
Believing he’d escaped both men’s watchful eyes, Gage ambled on, lugging his two prop suitcases which happened to be stuffed with clothes from Goodwill’s dollar rack. He angled right, descending a conveyor that took him to a lower level, to the taxi stand. On the lower, outdoor level, Gage donned dark sunglasses. He paused, appearing to stare up at the signage, but cut his eyes back to the ramp. He saw no one who appeared to be following him. Making an educated guess, he felt the driver and his partner were the only two who were waiting for him. They would have assumed he’d not checked any bags and, by this time, were probably beginning to panic since he hadn’t appeared.
It was time to leave.
Since it was so early in the day, the taxi line was short. Gage told the attendant he wanted to be taken to the seaside resort of Lloret de Mar, drawing raised eyebrows from the man.
“Señor, that will be a very expensive fare. More than a hundred euro.”
“It’s okay,” Gage said with the same stupid grin. “My company is paying for this whole trip. As long as I get a receipt, we’ll let old man Humphries worry about it.”
The attendant, who’d no doubt heard it all in the busy tourist destination, smiled disinterestedly at Gage’s reply and scribbled “Lloret” on the taxi card. He deposited Gage’s bags into the rear of the mini-van taxi and received a five-euro tip in return. As the taxi exited the airport into the morning traffic, the driver glanced at the taxi card and asked Gage where in Lloret he would like to be taken.
“Where the main entry road meets the beach,” Gage answered in English, hearkening back twenty-two years. And despite the somewhat uncomfortable se
at, he reclined and managed to nap for the entire hour-long trip, relieved that his first obstacles had been cleared.
* * *
Lloret de Mar, Spain
Upon his arrival in the seaside resort, and after paying the exorbitant cab fare with the expense money he’d been fronted, Gage checked into a second-row hotel, booking a modest room for the night for considerably less than what he’d paid for his ride from Barcelona. He took a shower, making the water very hot to ease his cramped muscles. The gash on Gage’s elbow burned in the water, making Gage briefly wonder what had become of the four Fiends back in Waco.
From the few clothes he’d wedged into his pack, he donned cargo shorts and a t-shirt, an outfit that would blend in well in the inexpensive seaside town. Then Gage headed back outside. It was now nearly noon and the May sun baked the Mediterranean resort. The streets were quiet in the likely hung-over party town, with most of the foot traffic wearing the bored countenance of locals. Gage walked inland, following Avinguda del Rieral for about a kilometer until he saw the large hotel he’d noticed on the drive in. Its brass sign out front claimed four-star-S status—exactly what Gage needed.
After eyeing the main entrance for a moment, he entered the sprawling hotel complex through the side entry, at the spa and tennis courts. There, after practicing a bit of his rusty Spanish on the pert female attendant—enjoying her radiant smile and affected interaction—he threw one of the embroidered hotel courtesy towels over his shoulder and wended his way into the cavernous main lobby of the hotel, just any old guest coming back from a trip to the spa.
While Lloret de Mar is a bargain basement destination for much of Europe, it still commands incredible views and is situated ideally between Barcelona, the Pyrenees, and the French border. The nightlife is famously frenetic, especially during the summer months, as teens and twenty-somethings from all over Europe flock to the resort’s energy and low prices. Most of the hotels near the water, such as the one Gage had checked into, were quite inexpensive. This four-star-S hotel, however, catered to a different type of client. In the lobby he spotted the bright white clothing and freshly groomed lap dogs he’d seen during his last trek to Paris. And although he was wearing a common t-shirt and plain shorts, Gage put on an important air, laboring to add a German accent to his Spanish as he asked the concierge for a courtesy phone.
“Of course, sir,” the concierge said, whipping a cordless phone from an unseen spot behind the counter.
Gage situated himself in a corner leather chair, dialing a long series of calling card numbers from memory, learning that he had only a few dollars’ worth of time remaining.
I should recharge the phone card now, he thought. Upon glancing at his watch, short on time, he decided to do it afterward. He then dialed the phone number he’d been given, pulling in a breath as the phone rang.
“Díme,” commanded the person who picked up.
“May I please speak with El Jefe?” Gage asked, remembering the explicit instructions that he was not to use Navarro’s name on the telephone.
“I know who this is.” A pause. “Where are you?”
“What’s important is that I’m calling El Jefe.” Gage could hear what he guessed was Navarro’s voice in the background, speaking in Catalan-accented Spanish. There were a few muffled sounds before a new voice could be heard on the line. The voice was odd-sounding, as if it were computer-generated.
“Is this Mister Harris?”
“It is.”
“Mister Harris, my men awaited your arrival at the airport. Was there a problem?”
“No, señor. I suppose I didn’t see them.”
“But you made the flight?”
“Yes, and thank you for the business class seating. I’ve never enjoyed such comfort.”
There was a pause. “I was expecting we would be meeting by this time.”
“A meal works best for me. Meet me this evening at nine, in Tossa de Mar, in the pedestrian area. There’s an Italian restaurant there called Il Dipinto. I’d prefer you be alone.”
Despite the voice modulator, Gage could hear the tiniest note of indignation. “You will pardon me for saying, but when I pay a sizeable retainer and fund a person’s travel, I’m not accustomed to being directed what to do and where to be.”
“And you will please pardon me for my careful nature. Because, señor, this is the only way I will agree to meet you. If you do not agree with my request, you will not see or hear from me again.”
“I cannot come alone, or to the place of your choosing. I have far too many enemies to hazard such a directive.”
“Would you hire me, especially going through the channels you did, if you didn’t trust me?”
Navarro’s silence provided Gage his answer.
“Señor, the restaurant is in an alleyway. Bring one man and post him at the head of the alleyway. One man only. I will be alone and I have no intention of doing anything other than dining, and chatting, with you.”
The modulator squelched as Navarro exhaled loudly into the phone. “Agreed. Nine this evening.”
“I look forward to meeting you then.”
Forgetting to recharge his calling card, Gage thumbed off the phone and handed it back to the concierge along with a crisp ten euro bill. He made his face contemplative, tapping the polished counter with his fingernail.
“Can I help you with something else, señor?”
Gage nodded, removing another ten from his pocket. “Would you be able to assist me in the hire of a small charter boat for an evening cruise?”
The concierge beamed as he consulted an old-fashioned Rolodex.
* * *
After walking back to his own hotel, Gage napped until nearly 5:30 in the afternoon. When he awoke, aside from his lingering jet lag, Gage felt quite good. Following another shower, he dressed in his favorite khaki utility pants and a long-sleeved bush shirt. Smelling of soap and shampoo, Gage made his way out into the early evening and headed to the main strip, near where it intersected with the beachfront road, headed to a unique club he’d noticed earlier in the day.
Gage was betting on someone at the club having an item he needed.
The club was marked by a large neon sign displaying the outmoded hammer and sickle associated with the Soviet Union. The name of the club was Eastern Bloc, written using both the English and Cyrillic alphabets. The building loomed large on the main strip, covered in sheets of chrome and fronted by numerous velvet ropes that would later restrain the throng as they waited to enter. But at this early hour the club was deserted, save for a lone man inside the door. He had a shaved head, dual diamond earrings, and a hideous burgundy suit with gold piping for trim. Judging from a quick glance at the musculature under the gaudy suit, he appeared to be the type of fellow who could handle himself in conflict.
Feeling the want of caffeine, Gage seated himself at an adjacent street-side café, ordering an espresso and eating the semi-sweet cookie that came with it. All the while, he watched the man inside the doors of the club, studying his actions. Finished, Gage left five euro under the saucer and stepped to the velvet ropes of club Eastern Bloc.
Closing his eyes, Gage took a deep breath, momentarily unsure of this route of action.
You’re unarmed, Gage. This is your easiest and quickest method of rectifying that.
“Shit,” Gage whispered, wishing he didn’t feel compelled to do this. He stepped to the glass door and knocked three times. The man in the burgundy suit turned, mouthing something Gage couldn’t make out. It probably had to do with Eastern Bloc’s opening time which, according to the Cyrillic-style letters on the door, wasn’t until nine in the evening. The man went back to what he was doing behind the podium, involving paper tickets of some sort.
Gage eyed the cut of the man’s suit closely. Yep, two of them, right where I’d wear them, too. Gage was guessing .40 calibers in chrome…or gold. He knocked again.
The beady blue eyes came up, showing a high level of irritation. Gage curled his finger. The
man came to the door, eyes beaming lasers. There was the snap of a bolt. The door opened, bringing with it the residual smell of cologne, vodka, boiled cabbage and sweat.
“What do you want?” the man growled in English. Gage saw the glint of gold teeth and, from under the man’s collar, the brief hinting escape of a jagged chest tattoo. The man was almost certainly what Gage thought he was.
“I was told to speak with you,” Gage said in German.
“English or Russian,” the man growled. Gage repeated the phrase in English, again using a German accent.
“Who told you speak with me?”
Gage swallowed and looked both ways. “Last night, here, the girl with brown hair. I don’t know if she was Russian or Ukrainian. Anyway, she said to come by early and to only speak with Yuri about it. I’ve got all the money.”
The Russian’s face contorted. “Yuri? There no damn Yuri here. My name is Dmitry. And what money?”
Gage showed his palms and backed onto the sidewalk. “Okay, you know what, I’m nervous enough about buying this stuff from someone I don’t know and I think she gave me some bad information. I’m really sorry for bothering you. I’ll go elsewhere, cool?”
He turned and began to walk away, struggling not to grin. He heard the scrape of Dmitry’s knock-off Gucci loafers on the sand-gritted sidewalk. Then Gage was whirled around by a strong hand.
“What you talking about?” the Russian asked, still gripping Gage’s shoulders.
“You know…”
Dmitry gave Gage’s shoulder a shake. “No, I don’t know. Tell me.”
Gage glanced around before leaning close to the Russian’s ear and whispering, “The white pony.”
“White pony?”
“C’mon man…y’know…coke.”
“Cocaine?”
Gage shook his head, trying to pull back. “See…I knew it…this is a bad idea.”
The Russian held firm. “What cocaine?”
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