* * *
Eating sunflower seeds one at a time, El Toro sauntered through the main bay. Working the split hull of a seed to the tip of his tongue, he spit it out, watching as it separated into two damp pieces, fluttering to the shiny floor in random patterns. Standing in the main yard doorway and keeping the American in sight, he eyed his relay man at the far fence. As a type of commo-check El Toro scratched his forehead, watching as the man across the yard repeated the action.
“Aquí vamos,” he whispered, shuffling into the sunlight.
* * *
Since arriving, Gage had only been out in the yard a few times. He could see no reason to make a habit of it. Gage was not one to tempt fate. He knew that the breadth of the outdoor area would be far more likely a place to invite attack or retribution. But, especially after Cesar’s decree and the treatment he’d gotten after the fight in the cell, Gage felt safe walking to the far side, viewing the road through the fences.
Outside the outer fence, the occasional car sped by, its occupants surely blissfully unaware that only a few hundred meters away existed an entirely different universe. A universe of rape and extortion. A universe where certain tattoos were the equivalent of senatorial power. A universe that cared only about itself and its occupants, ignoring the realities and reason of the outside world.
He moved to one end of the fence before turning halfway around. This would keep his right side to the fence and would only be visible to the lone guard in the center tower. And unless that guard was viewing Gage through a high-powered scope, Gage saw no way he could see the flesh-colored earpiece device he’d just slid into his right ear.
As he ambled slowly, making sure to turn his head and eyes naturally (a person with a still head looks quite unnatural) Gage reached into his pocket, blindly dialing the number he’d been told to memorize.
A European ring tone was then heard, tinny and distant. One ring. Three rings. Five rings. Eventually, just as he’d been told, a person answered but said nothing. Then Gage spoke the code he’d been instructed on, using Spanish. “Buenos días, es esta la farmacia?”
As promised, the caller on the other end of the line didn’t even respond. They simply hung up. Gage counted as he walked the fence back to where he’d started. By the time he reached sixty-five, the phone in his pocket vibrated. Gage tapped the earpiece and whispered, “Bueno?”
“Señor Harris.” It was Navarro.
“Sí.”
“Are you secure?”
“I’m in the yard. I may sound strange because I don’t want to fully move my lips. Can you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, it’s quite clear.”
Ahead of Gage, a small man in dark sunglasses sat alone at a picnic table reading a J.T. Ellison paperback. While he read, he scratched his chin, his hand moving slowly up his face before scratching his shaved head.
“Señor,” Gage whispered, keeping his eye on the reader but not yet thinking anything of him. “Things here are not as all as you thought.”
“In what way?”
“For starters, your son is aligned with Los Leones.” Gage took ten more steps before hearing a response.
“That’s…that’s impossible.”
“He told me so. And I’ve hardly seen him when he wasn’t surrounded by members of Los Leones. He’s also confronted me several times, telling me he doesn’t want my help and that he is protecting me. In fact, I was in a fight and Cesar intervened. He’s told me that my protection won’t last much longer.”
Spanish curses, spoken in anguish, could be heard. Footsteps were also audible before he heard Navarro snap his fingers and dismiss Valentin. The background sound changed to slightly fuzzy, denoting a breeze. “Has someone there turned you?” Navarro asked.
Gage stopped momentarily, glancing up to the sky as he felt a throbbing begin in his temples. “No one has turned me. I speak only the truth.”
“If what you say is true—”
“It is true.”
“Then something more sinister than I feared is going on,” Navarro said, sounding out of breath. “Cesar doesn’t have the shrewdness to be a true León. If they’ve brought him into their fold, it’s being done as a ruse, as a trap. You must tell him this.”
“He won’t listen to me. He doesn’t even know me.” Gage let that settle for a moment. “Why don’t you tell him? You could come here and see him face to face.”
Out on the road, two loud trucks rumbled by, forcing Gage to tell Navarro to wait. When they had passed, Navarro responded. “As I explained before you went there, I am doing all I can to sanitize my operations, to be legitimate as the saying goes. But it’s Los Leones who have made things the most difficult for me. They’ve beaten and killed my men in all corners of Catalonia. They’ve robbed my concerns. They’ve spread disinformation about my empire, all to their own end.
“While I have not operated by the letter of the law, my organization has always been honorable. Those who strayed from my ethical code were dealt with, and harshly. But Los Leones kills the way you and I breathe. They do it from instinct.”
Movement caught the corner of Gage’s eye. The man at the picnic table had spun so he straddled the bench with both legs, trying to appear natural as a man simply shifting his position. Now, as Gage changed direction, the man flipped back around, still holding his paperback. Gage could hear Navarro saying something, but he was too zoned in on the reading man. Now he’s putting his hand on top of his head and rubbing his scalp. Gage slyly followed his gaze, seeing a man on the far wall casually mimic the gesture. Then, at the main door, Gage could see El Toro, his musculature obvious even at such a distance.
All three men were members of Los Leones.
Gage rapidly blinked his eyes as if there was dust blowing. But there was no dust. Permutations of possibilities took place in his mind. He’d just seen a simple code relayed, that was for certain. The reader from the picnic table ambled away, doing a quick rendition of a flamenco dance with stuttered, strutting steps while keeping his hands at his waist. When he reached his relay man they shared a laugh, performing some sort of ritualistic handshake.
“Señor Harris?” Navarro persisted. Gage was too deep in thought to acknowledge him.
Studying the angle of the relay—edge of yard, center yard with an eye to doorway, inside of doorway—Gage pondered the reasons for the message. It had to be his own actions, talking on this phone. Did they aim to steal it? Certainly a possibility—a phone in prison would be one of the most treasured items a prisoner could own. But if that were the case with Los Leones, why didn’t they just come take it?
“Señor Harris!” Navarro yelled.
Startled by the shout, Gage’s said, “Señor, where are you?”
“That’s not pertinent.”
Gage’s voice became a razor. “The phone you’re talking on, the satellite phone…”
“What about it?”
“You devised the farmacia-wrong-number code solely for the purpose of knowing when to turn on the satellite phone, correct?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is the man with the phone I called, the first number, is he there?”
“No. He’s hundreds of kilometers away. As I’ve told you, I take great precautions.”
They’re after the satellite phone’s signal. Shit!
“Why do you ask?”
“The house we met in, the one on the coast under the cliffs, does anyone know where it is?”
“That wasn’t my regular home, Señor Harris, it was a rental I use on occasion. I’ve insulated myself to the point that I bring no one to my permanent homes other than Valentin.”
Gage rubbed the stubble of his face. “What about your son, does he know where you are now?”
“Only Valentin knows where I regularly stay,” Navarro said with emphasis. “As I told you about Cesar—we’ve been estranged for many years, since I began to legitimize my operation.”
“Have you ever visited him here?”
“Yes
, once.”
“Was the visit announced?”
“Of course not. And I took great precautions upon leaving there not to be followed.”
Swallowing, his tongue feeling as thick as a tire tread, Gage said, “Los Leones, would they profit from knowing where you are?”
“You know they would.”
“But to be clear, are they looking for you?”
“Everyone is. It’s why I live the way I do.”
“You compromised me, señor, by telling me none of this. You didn’t tell me about the others you had inserted before me, and you certainly didn’t tell me about the fact that Los Leones are looking for you.”
“What are you saying?”
“Have your acusador get me out of here today.”
“What?”
“Today. But before you do that—right damned now—hang up that satellite phone, remove the battery, and run like hell. Change your position.”
“But it’s untraceable.”
“Nothing is untraceable,” Gage snapped. “Do as I said and change your position immediately!”
“You’re actually serious,” Navarro said.
“Of course I am. They know I’m on the phone. They waited for us to speak and someone is now tracking your signal. Disconnect the battery and go!”
“This is nonsense. This phone cannot be traced.”
“Go now!”
“Keep that phone on,” Navarro said. Then the line went dead.
Gage surveyed the yard. There were at least a hundred men outside and no one seeming to be paying him any notice. Inside the three outer guard towers, Gage saw one guard casually smoking a cigarette. The other two, leaning over their respective railings, radios in front of them, seemed to be having a conversation, a funny one judging by their laughter.
Am I just being paranoid?
Crossing the yard, Gage stepped inside the main bay to see Cesar, standing in the center of the cavernous room. A shit-eating grin dominated his ratlike face and his arms were straight out to his side—he could have easily been taking an ovation after an opening night on Broadway. Around him, Los Leones slapped him on the back, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him with their congratulations.
It was a scene of jubilation.
A cold shiver passed through Gage.
* * *
Morón Air Base, near Seville, Spain
Minutes earlier, in the southern province of Andalusia, an old-fashioned pager vibrated in General Brian Yelding’s pocket. The pager had been modified to vibrate twice as hard as a normal pager would—so there was no mistaking its presence when it performed as designed. Yelding had just taken a bite of a late lunch when he felt the buzzing. The vibration scared him at first but the fear quickly turned to thrill. The general was about to get paid.
He excused himself from the table of officers, stepping outside into the hot afternoon and dialing a number.
“Got it?” Yelding asked, breathless. He listened for a moment. “No…no coordinates. The person I’m dealing with wouldn’t know a frigging coordinate from the length of his dick. Just give me the exact address.”
Yelding waited. After a moment he scribbled the address on a scrap of paper, tucking it into his shirt pocket. He listened to the defense satellite engineer before saying, “You’ll get paid when I do. And just remember who we’re dealing with here. Don’t tell your wife, your buddies, anyone. And don’t deposit the money, either.” He hung up.
Yelding then went through the folders of his phone, finding the number on a note he’d created. He slid the cursor over the number, dialing it. The phone was answered immediately.
“I found your friend. Respectfully, I’d like the Gibraltan bank account number before giving the address.” After a moment of listening he removed the address from his pocket and scribbled the bank account number. “Just a moment, please.” The general removed another sheet he’d prepared, showing the sequence of numbers in Gibraltar banks. The number he’d been given appeared to be genuine.
“Thank you. The address you’re seeking is in the enclave of Cadaques. The address is number one, S’Aranella.”
After confirming the address, the man on the other end of the line hung up the phone.
Yelding, unable to restrain the mirth from spreading over him, placed his phone on the ground, smashing it under his heel. He ground his foot back and forth, pulverizing the mobile device. Once he’d discarded the pieces, he stepped back into the dining facility, resuming his late lunch. He didn’t feel one bit of remorse—criminals killing criminals makes the world a better place.
The bland meal tasted exquisite, especially now that he was a quarter-of-a-million dollars richer.
Chapter Seventeen
Cadaques, Spain
Ernesto Navarro had removed the battery from his satellite phone, eyeing the two parts with a cocked eyebrow. He was at his villa on the northern shore of Cadaques, the seaside enclave famous for inspiring artists like Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso. Tapping out his last Dunhill, Navarro crumpled the pack, leaning back on the white leather sofa and pondering what he’d heard on the phone. Was it possible, Cesar in bed with Los Leones?
Don’t be his papa right now, be the cold and calculating man who once ruled the north of Spain with an iron fist. The man with fifty million euro spread throughout the world’s banking havens. The man who once took down the world’s most powerful mobster with only three men, two shotguns and a pair of osmium balls.
Closing his eyes, Navarro reasoned it out. Cesar had always been his own man, unwilling to stand in his father’s shadow, returning any act of paternal kindness with a bite of Navarro’s hand. Even as a small boy, back when Navarro’s wife had been alive, Cesar would become angry at something trivial and smash his favorite toy as revenge.
But…
Cesar as a León? Yes, it’s theoretically possible. Opening his eyes, Navarro whispered, “Quite possible,” feeling as if he’d just ingested a cup of vinegar.
But this American…Hartline. What was he up to? Though vouched for as a man who lived life simply and well within his own means, he’d certainly turned at the prospect of Navarro’s significant offer. And why wouldn’t he do it again, especially when Los Leones could easily portray Navarro as just another mobster? They could tie hundreds of murders back to him so that a soldier-like mercenary such as Hartline would have no compunction over flipping from one thug to another.
Unsure of exactly who to trust, Navarro was still somewhat unfazed over the warnings from the American. The phone call had startled him at first, but he relaxed as he thought back through his scrupulous preparations. He’d been assured by a top scientist with Spain’s Instituto Nacional de Técnica Aeroespacial, a man who regularly helped Los Soldados with surveillance, that a satellite phone was untraceable except at the very highest levels of government and military. While Navarro had grudging respect for Xavier Zambrano’s skills, Navarro still felt that he and his top Leones were nothing more than a collection of thick-skulled thugs. It would be one thing to track a cellular signal—any iniquitous idiot at a wireless provider could provide such a service. But it would be an entirely different process to crack into a satellite’s feed. It would take the government’s help and, for more than three decades, Navarro had owned all corners of the executive government. If Zambrano had made inroads, Navarro would have already learned about it.
Now, on to another question.
Should he pull Hartline from Berga? It might help determine if he’d flipped. And, if he had, he’d have to be eliminated. That would leave Navarro in a precarious position with his American allies.
“Merda,” Navarro mumbled. He thumbed the handheld radio. “Valentin.”
“Yes, señor?”
“I spoke with Hartline at Berga. He was concerned about my satellite phone being tracked. Does that concern you?”
“No, señor. We were given assurances that such a task is impossible. Also, if you’ll recall, this American is overly cautious. Too cauti
ous, in my opinion.”
“You have no concerns?”
“Cero.”
“Do you see anything unusual outside?”
“Nothing, señor. I’m viewing all the monitors now. What did Hartline tell you about Cesar?”
“I’ll tell you later. I want some time to think.”
Navarro put the radio down and dropped the crumpled cigarette pack on the coffee table. He then lit his cigarette. The Mediterranean waves could be heard outside, the warm sea breeze pushing the filmy fabric in through the open French doors. Hoping the fresh air might clear his head, he walked outside, sliding off his Gucci loafers and standing barefoot on the white wood of his porch. Navarro’s two wolf shepherds padded out with him. Having been run earlier, they quickly settled in on the deck and resumed their slumber.
This was his primary residence in the summer, not the safe-house twenty kilometers to the south where he’d met with Gage Hartline. No one knew he was here, although the very thought of being found sent a spike of fear through the elder Navarro.
Deep breaths.
He thought about Valentin’s counsel, and the advice of his own primary attorney. They both urged him to pick up and go. To announce himself as fully retired, to give up his interests and move to Monaco or Montenegro or Cyprus where he could finish out his final ten or twenty years in the sun and casinos. There he could eat good food, enjoy the ministrations of skinny women, and utilize the world’s best medicine to remain above ground for as long as possible.
“How much money do you need?” Valentin had urged on the chilly night after the Hartline meeting, once Hartline and the smarmy acusador, Redon, had taken their leave. “If you leave now, even that maniac who runs Los Leones will gladly trade Cesar’s life for the control of your interests. He’ll leave him unharmed and send you on with his blessings.”
The fire had danced before Navarro, the seasoned alder cracking and popping.
“Why won’t you do it, señor?” Valentin had pleaded.
Navarro had finally turned to him and said, “I will never run away.” Then he’d stared until Valentin dropped his eyes.
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