“How long?”
“Just a few more hours.”
“You’re sweating. Are you okay?”
“Sure, I am,” he said, forcing a laugh.
“Good.” She stared up at him, touching his face with her hand. “This is nice, Gage.”
Pushing the unpleasant thoughts aside, he said, “I agree. Very nice.”
“I’ve never been so happy.” With that, she nestled her curled body into her seat, again cradling her head into Gage’s lap.
Resuming his observation of the French countryside, Gage resumed his vows—screaming the words in his mind.
Never again!
* * *
Paris, France
La Ville des Lumières was alive with energy. The evening was quite cool and it had rained earlier, but now, despite the bright lights of the city, the brightest stars could be seen twinkling above as Gage and Justina walked hand in hand through the Tuileries Garden. Even though it was almost midnight, they’d just finished their evening meal, having feasted magnificently at an affordable 7th arrondissement restaurant recommended by their hotelier.
The restaurant itself had been a bit of a shock to Gage. Cavernous and consisting of two levels, the eatery was outfitted with large central screens showing ribald black and white silent films. The films weren’t exactly pornographic but did display quite a bit of naked skin of both females and males from what appeared to be early 20th Century footage. Justina had found the movies incredibly amusing, giggling every time the screens showed something bawdy.
Both of them quite full, having crossed back over the Seine, they strolled to the garden park, heading west on the crushed gravel trail, heading toward the brightly lit Arc de Triomphe up the hill in the distance. Justina suddenly stopped.
“I thought you wanted to see the Arc?” Gage said.
“So, I see it,” Justina said, gesturing with her hand.
Though it was dark in the gardens, there was enough ambient light for Gage to tell she was smiling. “Do you want to go somewhere else instead?” he asked.
“Bardzo,” she replied in her native tongue.
“What does that mean?”
“It means, ‘very much so.’” She grasped his hand, pulling him to the north.
“Where are we going?”
She led him on.
After they crossed the Rue de Rivoli, he asked her again.
“Back to the hotel,” she said. “Am I going the right way?”
“Make a left here,” he said. “You tired?”
“Not at all,” she replied, smiling again.
Their hotel was small and inexpensive—inexpensive for Paris—just a block off the Place Vendôme in the 1st arrondissement. Despite being basic, the outside of their art nouveau hotel was charming. The building was tall and narrow, faced in glazed masonry with accents of decorative black iron. Justina stopped at a small street-side cart, purchasing a bottle of red wine, a large bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes.
“Now we’re really ready,” she said, a bottle in each hand.
Upstairs, as Gage’s heart hammered in his chest, Justina searched the room for a corkscrew. “Skurwysyn! We’re in a Paris hotel room and they don’t have a corkscrew?”
Gage produced his utility knife and had the cork out in seconds.
“Why, thank you,” she said. When she couldn’t find a glass, she gave Gage the water bottle, clinking it with the wine. Then she turned the wine up, chugging mightily.
“Careful now,” Gage laughed.
“Screw it. I’m on vacation.” Walking into the small bathroom, Justina turned the shower on and told Gage to get cleaned up.
His nervousness quelled somewhat by her amusing actions, Gage nodded and complied. When he came out from the bathroom, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, Justina was nowhere to be seen. Moments later she came in from the hallway, putting her cigarettes and lighter on the small shelf by the door.
“My turn.” She took another slug of the wine before closing herself in the bathroom. Gage dropped to the bed, taking large, hyperventilation-style breaths.
“Be calm, buddy,” he said to himself fourteen times in a row.
After what seemed to be several hours, the bathroom opened, spilling steam into the cool room. Justina, wearing one of his long t-shirts, turned off the light, revealing only her silhouette. He stood. Justina came to him. They kissed, gently at first, growing to heated passion. Justina turned him as they kissed, both of them falling to the bed. They kissed again as her hands slid downward, sliding his shorts and underwear down.
Gage’s heart pumped abnormal quantities of blood as she reached under the long t-shirt, sliding her panties down her legs. Then she pulled the long t-shirt over her head, standing still for a moment, her eyes joined with his as he viewed her form.
Justina was tall and lean, and the body Gage had first seen in the bikini in the club Eastern Bloc, and later on the beach, did not disappoint. Her skin had the envious tautness of a person in her early twenties. Her shoulders were square and her breasts full and upturned at their dark points. Two silky curves occurred as his eyes slid downward, inward at her trim waist and back out at the swell of her hips, framing the delicateness of her femininity that he somehow willed himself not to look at.
She climbed onto the bed on all fours, moving to one side of the bed as she slid under the covers, holding them up until he did the same. Then, just as she’d done the two nights before, she rolled to her side and draped his arm over her stomach.
Gage could hardly breathe.
His bodily response was completely involuntary but, judging by the subtle movements of hid bedmate, welcome. She pressed backward into him, turning her head so her mouth was brushing against his.
“Love me, Gage.”
Her words set him in motion. Cupping her face in his hands, he allowed her to roll to her back as he moved astride her lean body, kissing her. After a moment he pulled his head back. Justina was smiling.
She was quite beautiful and he told her so.
Justina slid her nails down his back, pulling him into a blissful union that occurred three unforgettable times over the course of the Parisian night.
It was Gage’s finest evening in quite some time.
* * *
The next day, after a hearty breakfast and three hours touring the Louvre, Justina napped while Gage made his way down the Rue de Rivoli. After quite a search, he eventually located a phone booth—an anachronism these days, but still useful to a person wanting to make an anonymous call. While the operator asked Colonel Hunter if he would accept charges from a Gregory Harris, Gage checked his watch. It was eight in the morning across the Atlantic in North Carolina.
“Hunter, here.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“It is a good morning. Gettin’ some rain. We need it.” Gage could hear the whooshing as his former commander dropped down into his La-Z-Boy. “How’s Paris?”
“Not bad, actually.”
“Yeah, I spent two months there right after ‘Nam, with a task force from the French’s Dragon Thirteenth. The French are easy targets for ridicule but, from my point of view, they get a bad rap at times.”
“Agreed. So, sir, did you learn anything about the job I’ve been offered?”
“A little on the folks involved. Sketchy, mainly. Those fellows aren’t the terrorist variety, so most of my contacts don’t have ‘em on their radars.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Of what I did learn, the son, Cesar, is a certified scumbag. That came from three sources. In the event you did take the job, you couldn’t trust him. Ever. He and his pop have had a lot of differences, too.”
“Did you learn anything new about Ernesto?”
“Didn’t learn anything new. From all I hear, he is what he is, but isn’t a bullshitter.”
“Okay,” Gage breathed.
“But,” Hunter said, using a brighter tone, “I did learn a few things about this Cortez Redon fellow.”
“We know he’s dirty, if he’s taking Navarro’s money.”
“That’s a fact, for sure. A contact of mine spoke to a friend in Spain, somewhere in their justice system, and the fellow said Cortez Redon’s not only dirty, but he’s one of the most spiteful, mean sonofabitches on the Iberian peninsula.”
“Is this source good?”
“I trust my guy, and my guy said his source is impeccable. Lie down with Cortez Redon, son, and you might as well lie down in a bed of rattlers.”
“Well, that clenches it. I’m out.”
“Don’t blame you a bit.” Hunter cleared his throat. “So, how’re things going with you and your new friend?”
“Pretty good, sir.”
“I can hear that smile of yours through the phone.”
“As usual, you nailed it.”
“When will you head back?”
“Not sure. Soon, I hope. Paris is expensive.”
“You coming alone, or accompanied?”
“Not sure about that, either.”
“Bring her along,” Hunter said. “You’ve got the shed out back and three squares. She’s not one of them frou-frou’s, is she? Can she handle the shed?”
“She’s not frou-frou,” Gage laughed. “And your shed’ll look like the Ritz after what she’s been through.”
“Just give me a heads up before you fly.”
“Roger, sir.”
Once they hung up, Gage stepped from the phone booth, crossing the busy street, back to the Tuileries Garden. The sun shone brightly overhead, warming Paris as many people sunbathed and lounged in the expansive park.
Though Gage knew he needed to put up a façade of confidence for Justina, he at least wanted to settle on a plan of action. Gage hated being without a plan. He found a spot on the edge of a marble fountain and calculated his remaining money, determining that they could easily stay in Paris another five days and leave Gage sufficient cushion to travel back to the States with.
And Gage definitely wanted Justina to come back with him.
As discussed on the call, they could stay in Hunter’s “shed”, which was a converted shipping container on the backside of his land. It didn’t sound appealing, but it was actually quite nice, even equipped with an enclosed toilet and running water. Gage and the colonel had converted it a year earlier, cutting in dual windows and adding a proper door to the front of the container. In essence, it was now not too dissimilar to a mobile home. And mobile homes were quite common around Fort Bragg.
Once stateside, Justina would have a few months to find work and, as part of that process, Gage was certain Hunter could help her with a Visa. In the meantime, Gage could partake in some training as he waited on a job. If things broke right, he and Justina could have their own apartment inside of a few months.
But one thing was certain, after this week, Gage’s vacation was over. Being this close to summer, Gage knew Justina’s transatlantic airfare would be upwards of $1,200. Gage’s round-trip ticket was open, and in business class. He hoped, with some luck, that the airline would allow him two coach seats in exchange for his one expensive ticket. That would be a huge boon to his rapidly decreasing nest egg.
Wanting to let Justina sleep as long as she desired, Gage wandered to the north, turning west at the majestic Paris Opera House. He walked all the way to the Parc Monceau, sitting on a bench as the pigeons swarmed him only long enough to find he had no food. When he’d decided to wait a few more days before proposing his plan to Justina, he ambled back to their hotel, taking the striking, tree-lined Boulevard Malesherbes to Rue Royale.
By the time he keyed the door, he’d been gone nearly two hours. But he hadn’t expected to find Justina sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping tears from her face.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Managing a smile, she nodded, pulling him to her.
“What’s wrong, Justina?”
They laid on the bed together before she answered him. “Nothing is wrong. In fact, I’m so happy to be with you.”
“Why were you crying?”
“It was nothing.”
Gage didn’t push for an answer.
After a while, he asked if she slept.
“Not a wink.”
“Why not?”
“Because I couldn’t sleep for thinking of you,” she said, turning and locking her arms around him.
Though Gage would have loved to have known why she was crying, Justina deftly moved his mind in a completely different direction.
Thank goodness.
Chapter Ten
The following three days were glorious. Gage and Justina spent nearly every waking minute together, discovering exactly how compatible they really were. While there were many things to like about Justina, Gage found himself being most affected by her sense of humor. She had a way of imagining things about other people, total strangers, that would sometimes have Gage bent double in laughter. One afternoon, when they’d wandered into an expensive store just for the fun of looking, Justina had grasped Gage’s arm and deftly gestured to a man who was being fitted for a suit. It was obvious the overly-tan gentleman had endured a facelift.
“I think that man’s doctor stapled his face a little tightly, yes?”
Gage had pretended to view a tie while taking a good look. She was correct. The man’s face was so severely tightened it looked comical, pulled into a permanent smile like the Joker from Batman.
“My goodness, do you think he can even talk?” Justina breathed. “And how does he open his mouth to eat?”
“Stop,” Gage whispered, trying not to laugh.
“I bet dogs bark at him when he walks past. Children drop their lollipops.”
“Quit it.”
“But some women would be attracted to him. They know he has the money for a facelift and, no matter what they do, he always smiles about it.”
“Justina…”
“He looks like a doll I had as a child—a plastic doll.” She mimed popping a pill. “It looks like someone gave his face a Viagra.”
Gage had pulled her from the store before bellowing laughter on the street. There was something about Justina’s accent which made such observations even funnier. Her remarks didn’t come off as cruel in the least. She was just an observant young lady with a sense of humor, and being with her warmed Gage’s heart.
On their fourth day in Paris, after a long walk to the Eiffel Tower, Gage and Justina had a simple meal outside a small café in the 7th Arrondissement. The temperature was much warmer this evening, the air thick with summerlike humidity. The setting sun lingered, beaming through the adjacent buildings and splashing the couple with flattering honey light. Justina ordered a small carafe of wine and, after she’d had two glasses, Gage felt it was a good time to finally suggest her coming with him to the United States. Though he’d have to spend a half-hour on the phone, Gage wanted to make the arrangements tonight so they could depart on one of tomorrow’s morning flights.
Just as he’d opened his mouth to speak, he noticed Justina’s eyes overflowing with tears. She’d turned, staring up at the Eiffel Tower through the buildings across the avenue.
This was the third time he’d seen her crying since initially finding her crying in their hotel room. Though he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on it, there had been a pit of dread in Gage’s stomach, worrying that something might have happened to her at the hands of her Russian “employers.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, touching her hand.
She sniffed, shaking her head as her lips trembled.
“Justina, what is it?”
“I’m okay.”
Gage steeled himself. “Does this have something to do with the Russians?”
“No, Gage, not at all.”
“You can tell me.”
“I promise. It’s not that.”
“Did someone abuse you?”
She wiped her tears with her napkin, smiling reassuringly. “I have never been abused, Gage. Ever.”
He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants leg.
“But when I told you about my family back in Poland, I didn’t tell you everything.”
“Okay,” he said with caution.
“As I said, my father died many years back.” She took a few steadying breaths. “My mother struggles to make money just for herself. And my older brother can barely pay to keep his wife and kids in food and shoes, so he can’t help her.” She dabbed her eyes. “All that’s true.”
“I remember you telling me all that.”
“But what I didn’t tell you is about my younger brother, Teodor.”
“You mentioned him.”
“Well, what I didn’t say is that he’s sick. Very sick.”
Gage leaned forward. “Sick, how?”
“He has a condition called Mukowiscydoza. I don’t know how you say it in English, but it affects his lungs. He cannot breathe well much of the time.” She snapped her fingers as if trying to recall something. “The international letters for this disease are C.F.”
“Cystic Fibrosis,” Gage said. “I’m somewhat familiar with it.”
“He does okay sometimes, but when he has bad times it puts a strain on my mother. The government pays for his basic care, but she has to be there with him. So when his condition is bad, she cannot work her job and then cannot buy what she needs.” She twirled her hand. “You get the picture, yes?”
“Yes,” Gage said. “I do.”
She pointed to the Eiffel Tower, managing a weak smile. “Teodor has an Eiffel Tower poster in his room. It’s tacky…showing the tower and two women with painted faces. But, he is a teenage boy.” Her smile was weak and distant. “Teodor always says he wants to come here someday and meet a beautiful French girl. Sitting here, seeing the tower in this pretty light, it made me think of him.” Her smile faded as her cheek began to twitch. “And the other night, when you came back to the hotel room, I’d just called my mama. They were at the hospital. He’s not doing well at all.”
“Is being in the hospital normal for him?”
She made a so-so motion with her hand. “He’s been in the hospital more than usual.”
“And that’s what made you cry?”
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