Gage backed away and, in his rough Spanish, told the man to turn around by saying, “Date la vuelta, por favor.”
The man was young and handsome, his face displaying a mixture of indignation and fear. Gage recognized him from earlier as the man from the airport who’d held a sign with Gage’s pseudonym. Honoring what he’d promised, Gage held both pistols down to his side. “Habla Inglés?”
A nod.
“I’m not going to hurt you. But I told Señor Navarro he was to bring only one man. Where are the others?”
“Only one. Outside the restaurant on the main pedestrian avenue.”
“Tell him we’re coming down, and he’s not to show any threat to me. Comprendé?”
The man spoke into the Bluetooth, listened for a moment, then spoke again. He nodded.
“Very good,” Gage said, stepping forward. He peered through the leaves of the saplings, seeing a man at the rear table, a white fedora resting on the table next to him. It was Navarro, don of Los Soldados, a man whose image was all over the Internet as the most powerful, and aged, mobster in Spain. In front of Navarro were a bottle of Pellegrino and a powder-blue box of Dunhill fine-cut cigarettes.
Lifting his eyes, Gage saw Navarro’s other man at the mouth of the alleyway—the man from the airport who’d been eyeing Gage’s picture on his phone. He was pacing, staring up to where Gage and the unarmed sentry stood.
It was a satisfying image.
Realizing his tedious precautions of the day were probably completely unnecessary, Gage didn’t regret them at all. Over the previous eighteen months he’d gotten his sea legs again. And the very first lesson, especially when dealing with criminals, was to trust no one. Even men vouched for by Colonel Hunter. Gage couldn’t afford to take any chances, like a bullet in his back while he dined.
He turned to the sentry. “Drop through here and go stand with your partner.”
“My pistol?”
“I’ll return it after I eat.”
Flashing a childlike expression of remorse, the sentry slid through the railing and released to the ground. Gage watched as Navarro turned and frowned at his man. Gage pocketed both pistols, now carrying three in his pants.
Grasping the center bar, Gage followed suit and slid through the railing. He dropped in behind Navarro, holding up his weighted-down pants. Straightening, Gage realized a woman at an adjacent table had seen him and the sentry drop in from above. Startled, she touched a hand to her upper chest. Gage smiled at her and said, “Atajo,” the Spanish word for shortcut.
He stepped to Navarro’s table and sat without invitation. To his credit, Navarro showed no surprise other than an arched white eyebrow. Navarro used his thumbnail to slit the cellophane from his cigarettes, peeling away the foil and removing a single cigarette.
“Mister Harris,” he said, inclining his head. “I truly appreciate your caution.”
“You said you would only bring one sentry. Yet you went against your promise and posted an armed man hidden behind you.”
“My sincere apologies. It was not done out of disrespect, and I would have informed you of his presence had you arrived traditionally,” Navarro said mildly. He spoke idiomatic English with only a slight accent. Navarro didn’t appear to be a tall man from where he sat, although his belly indicated a man who enjoyed good food. Gage guessed him to be at least seventy, give or take five years. His hair was stark white and styled nicely. Although his face was deeply tanned, it was blemished by a fair number of acne scars, mainly on his cheeks. The face was round and his nose, while tan and a tad sharp for a man with otherwise rounded features, showed several groupings of burst capillaries, possibly denoting him as an alcoholic, giving him a bright, rubicund appearance. But most pronounced were Navarro’s eyes, light amber in color. They were small but vivid and, to Gage, seemed to be the eyes of a person who was highly intelligent.
When Gage didn’t respond, Navarro lit his cigarette with a simple disposable lighter. He gestured to the street with his cigarette. “My men are embarrassed.”
“Which one is senior?”
“Valentin, the man stationed out at the street, is my asesor de seguridad. He’s by my side at all times. The other one, Ocho, comes and goes.”
“Would you mind calling Valentin over and introducing us—so he doesn’t do anything rash—then keep him posted out there for protection? I’m presenting my back to the street—something I do not feel comfortable in doing—and I’m only doing so as a courtesy to you.”
Navarro snapped his fingers. Valentin stepped over, flashing a harsh glance at Gage.
“Valentin, this is Señor Harris. He meant no harm in arriving the way he did.”
“He was showing off,” Valentin said in Spanish. “Showing off at the airport. Showing off here.”
“Stop,” Navarro commanded, raising his left hand. Resetting his countenance, he motioned back to the mouth of the street. “Now that you know he’s here and means no harm, Valentin, please continue to monitor the street for unwanted guests.”
“But he’s armed, patron, and he took Ocho’s pistol.”
“I’m not giving up my weapons,” Gage said flatly. He shook the silverware from a linen napkin and placed the other man’s pistol inside of it, placing it at the end of the table. “For Ocho.”
Valentin accepted the wrapped pistol, nodding curtly to Gage.
“That is all,” Navarro said.
Once Valentin had walked away, the waiter approached, hands behind his back as he performed a small bow. He spoke rapid Spanish to Gage before Navarro intervened, looking at Gage and saying, “In the interest of time, might I order for us?”
“Please.”
Gage wasn’t able to understand the request but it appeared by his reaction that the waiter approved. The waiter soon came back with another glass and poured Gage a glass of water.
“Unless you would like something stronger,” Navarro said, holding the waiter with an upheld hand.
“Water is fine.”
The waiter went back inside.
“This is my real voice, not that regrettable voice you heard on the phone,” Navarro said. “I was speaking to you through a ridiculous device.” He ruefully shook his head. “My enemies are so desperate to kill me that they have compromised the phone companies.”
“They sound advanced.”
“They’re savages.”
Navarro lifted his cigarette from the notched ashtray, dragging on it as he looked past Gage. Studying the man, Gage was almost certain he saw genuine sadness in the man’s eyes. A long silence ensued.
“Señor Navarro,” Gage eventually said, “typically when a man like you summons someone like me, and pays a travel retainer in the amount you paid, they get right down to the request.”
The Spaniard pulled in a long breath, flaring his nostrils. “When I began to make inquiries for a man with your skills, I initially learned about you from the Glaives.”
Now it was Gage’s turn to take in a sharp breath. He’d been promised that all animosity between him and the Glaives had been quashed. And, while Navarro seemed genuine, it unnerved Gage somewhat that the Glaives still had him on their minds.
“Please don’t concern yourself,” Navarro said, reading Gage’s expression. “The man I spoke to is a friend. He said he knew you…said you made peace.”
Gage nodded, realizing Navarro was speaking of Marcel Cherbourg.
“How is he?” Gage asked.
“He’s drastically reduced the Glaives’ size and, with it, their exposure.”
“Despite his choice of vocation, he seemed level-headed.”
Navarro took the slight insult with no reaction. “I could have offered this job to any number of qualified men,” the older man said distantly, speaking downward as if there were a person under the table. “I chose you because, in all my inquiries, you were rumored to possess a degree of compassion.”
“The others didn’t?”
“Mercenaries, the whole lot of them. Only in
your game for themselves.”
“What is the job, Señor Navarro?”
“It involves my son—he’s in grave danger.” Navarro crushed out the cigarette and straightened in his chair. He smoothed the brim of the fedora before lowering it to the empty chair to his left. “He’s in a situation that may soon cost him his life.”
“What situation?”
“I’ve done everything in my power to protect him. But, here in Spain, even someone like me is limited in the resources I can provide. Especially now.” Navarro’s lips twisted in a sour expression. “Through the years, I’ve amassed far more enemies than I’ve accumulated friends or money. And, unfortunately, I can no longer shield him from what he is enduring.”
“I don’t fully understand.”
“I need you to protect my son.”
Ten grand to listen. Well, I listened.
Gage leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Señor, I’m afraid there has been a bit of confusion.”
“Confusion?”
“I am not in the protection business. I’m not a bodyguard or anything of the sort. My specialty is surveillance and, on occasion, tactical insertion. There are thousands, maybe millions, of men and women better suited for straight security than—”
“If you’ll allow me to finish,” Navarro said patiently, cutting Gage off. “What I’m referring to is not a traditional protection job. In fact, you mentioned tactical insertion. Well, in essence, that’s what we’re talking about tonight. You see, Mister Harris, my son is currently—”
The disjointed conversation was again interrupted, this time by the waiter carrying a massive black bowl loaded with mussels in marinara sauce. Navarro slid his chair forward, shaking out his napkin and tucking it into his shirt. He made another request of the waiter who hustled away.
Gage grabbed the silverware from the setting next to him. He shook out the napkin and placed it in his lap, not really hungry but placing a few of the mussels on his plate. After eating one—it was superior—he sipped water and continued the conversation, surprised that his curiosity over this job was mildly piqued.
“You were about to tell me about your son, Señor Navarro.”
Navarro shoveled two dripping mussels into his mouth, shaking his head. Once he swallowed the mollusks he dabbed his mouth. “We will dine first; then we will discuss business.”
The two men ate two entire bowls of mussels along with a plate of buttered bread. Their only conversation involved the food, with Navarro exalting Gage’s choice of restaurants and, as he swallowed his last bite, proclaiming Il Dipinto’s mussels marinara as the best on the entire Costa Brava. Gage, who hadn’t been hungry prior to eating the first mussel, counted thirty-three empty shells on his plate. He pushed the plate away while Navarro lit another cigarette. As the waiter cleared away the dishes, Navarro ordered two café cortados, then seemed content to smoke in silence. After a few more minutes, Gage learned that café cortados were espressos with a splash of milk.
Happy to have more caffeine, Gage drank his in a few gulps and pushed his chair back while he waited on Navarro. The older man sipped his drink before taking a long drag on his dwindling cigarette, staring over Gage’s shoulder with the placid expression of a man listening to a beautiful composition of classical music. After several minutes, he crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, clearing away the smoke of the still air with his hand.
Finally, seemingly sated, he leaned backward and said, “My son, Mister Harris, is in prison. He has been there for about a year and it has been all I’ve been able to do to keep him alive.”
Gage blinked. He fought against repositioning himself in his chair, managing to remain still. Is he thinking of proposing a prison break? Gage thought. Even if it were successful, which is highly unlikely, I’d make mortal enemies of the Spanish government. Realizing he needed to hear the man out, Gage cleared his throat and said, “Please go on,” even though he wanted to immediately object.
“The prison, Mister Harris, is probably not the type of reformatory you’re thinking of. In the United States, at least from what I know, prisons are dangerous places, yet, at the same time, orderly and predictable.”
Though he didn’t necessarily agree with Navarro, Gage nodded for him to proceed.
“Here, however, the prisons are small and regionalized. And, upon sentencing, prisoners are supposed to be routed to the penal facility that is commensurate with their crime.”
“And your son was convicted of what?”
“Narcotics trafficking. It was an utter sham-job, orchestrated by my political, and economic, enemies.” Before Gage could respond Navarro said, “To be fair, and despite my many objections over his choice of vocation, he was guilty of narcotics trafficking, Mister Harris, only not in this instance. They framed him by breaking many laws.”
“I see.”
“Had he been sent to the correct facility, he would be serving his time proudly, and I would be able to protect him in the event of attack.”
“I’m guessing he was sent somewhere fierce?”
Navarro leaned forward and clasped his thick hands on the table. “Fierce doesn’t begin to describe Berga Prison. Every Catalonian gangster and murderer is there, trying to survive and make a name at the same time. An entirely different order has grown in those walls, one that has no respect for the power that exists outside the prison.” A tremor passed through Navarro’s tanned face. “The last time I spoke with him, he told me of the violence…and the deviancy.” He paused. “I’ve heard all the stories, Mister Harris, and even served a sentence in my earlier years…but what my son told me I could never imagine, even in the darkest corner of my mind.”
This meeting had been far more protracted than Gage had envisioned, and now it was getting personal. Knowing there was zero chance he would ever entertain the notion of intervening with a federal prisoner in a developed country, Gage made his tone polite. “Señor Navarro, I thank you for bringing me all this way. I also sympathize with what you’re going through and, if you’d like, I would be happy to connect you with someone I know who might be able to help you intervene by infiltrating the leadership of the prison, which is the route I would recommend. But I cannot assist you in helping your son escape, sir. And by continuing our meeting, I’m doing you a disservice.”
Navarro listened to Gage without expression. Then, as casually as if he were ordering another café cortado, he said, “I want you to go into that prison disguised as a prisoner.” He eyed Gage. “I want you to give it one month, and then make your decision about staying further. I want you to protect my son, Mister Harris, and create an overall assessment as to what it will take to keep him alive and well for the balance of the twenty additional months he will remain there. Or, if he cannot be protected for that amount of time, I need to know exactly, from a tactician’s eye, what it would take to free him.”
“Señor Navarro—”
“Everything has already been arranged. We have layers of redundancy from the government, in the justice department and elsewhere. Your insertion will be highly controlled and safeguarded.”
“But, Señor Navarro—”
“And I will compensate you with one hundred thousand dollars, cash, for your initial thirty days.”
Gage Hartline fell silent.
“I’ve looked into your affairs.” Navarro’s expression was mildly apologetic. “You have few assets and you report no income. My sources tell me that a man like you would do well to earn a hundred thousand dollars in a good year—two-fifty a year if you were willing to live in a hot-spot like Afghanistan or Syria. They also tell me you’re the type of man who lives simply, within your means.”
Navarro inclined his head, as if he admired Gage for this. “But knowing something about your past troubles, and speaking with you on a personal level, I get the feeling that you would not mind finding your ultimate peace somewhere, be it on a farm, on the side of a mountain, or in a seaside hut. Perhaps you would like to move here to Cataloni
a and own a small villa in the hills.” Navarro’s expression hardened, a distinguished salesman nearing the end of his pitch. “My money, Mister Harris, will go a long way to helping you accomplish that and, if you choose to stay on in the prison, I can guarantee you that you will never have to work another day in your life…unless you choose to.”
Gage cleared his throat. “Just so I might know what you’re referring to, what is the ultimate reward?”
“Fifty thousand dollars, U.S., for every additional month you stay. And when my son exits the prison alive and in good enough condition to resume a normal life—I say that so there’s no confusion—I will pay you a cash bonus of three million dollars, Mister Harris. That’s more than four million dollars for not even two years of your life. It won’t be pleasant,” he snorted, “not by a long shot, hence the significant reward.”
Gage had to remind himself to breathe. “Please go on,” he managed to say.
“An associate of mine has the remainder of the details. Those are, as you say, the broad strokes.” Navarro flattened his palms, his eyes alight. “Your thoughts?”
“May we meet again tomorrow?” Gage asked.
“You would like to sleep on this proposal?” Navarro asked with a hopefully cocked eyebrow.
“I’d be foolish not to,” Gage said, the very words surprising himself.
“Which means you’re considering it.”
Gage finished his water. “I don’t want to give you that impression.”
“If you weren’t, you would tell me no right now.” When Gage produced his money, Navarro motioned it away. “Please, Mister Harris, the food was my pleasure.”
“I will call you tomorrow, señor.”
“I’d prefer we schedule a meeting now. Do you feel comfortable enough to visit my casita without disarming my men on your way in?” Navarro asked, smiling as he finished his query.
Gage nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Valentin will give you a new number and pick you up after you call.” Navarro snapped his fingers and Valentin appeared.
After Gage had the information and bade farewell to Navarro, Gage stepped to the mouth of the alley with Valentin, addressing him and Ocho. “I apologize to you both if I caused you any problems with Señor Navarro.” Gage extended his right hand. “No hard feelings.”
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