And Theo Garcia, the accountant, grinned triumphantly.
After eyeing Garcia for a moment, angry that the accountant had been right all along, Xavier turned to his narcotics lieutenant. “Well, Camilo, since you attempted to take the easy way out, I’m now forced to choose for you.”
Xavier turned to Garcia again. “How many combinations are available?”
“Twenty-five if he’s forced to pick a finger from each hand,” Garcia said without hesitation.
“You had twenty-five choices, Camilo, and you chose the path of a coño.” His voice suddenly rising, Xavier yelled, “Extend your thumbs!”
“No!” Camilo cried.
“Do it, or I’ll crack every finger.” The third lieutenant moved for Camilo but Xavier froze him with a shake of his head. “Do it, Camilo. Be a man and not a coño. This is your only chance at atonement.”
Somehow, someway, Camilo balled his fists, placing them on the polished wood of the table. Then, like shy snakes emerging from twin holes, both thumbs crept skyward as if Camilo were giving his approval of the situation—though he certainly wasn’t.
“Very good, Camilo,” Xavier soothed, stepping to his side. He gently situated the lobster cracker on the middle knuckle of Camilo’s left thumb. “Are you ready?”
All that came from Camilo’s mouth was a croak. Xavier looked at the first lieutenant, the two of them exchanging a grin as Xavier clamped down, using both hands to pop Camilo’s thumb with a crack equal to a small caliber gunshot. He had to use both hands to pull the lobster cracker away, as it had bitten into Camilo’s skin and stuck there.
“One more, Camilo,” Xavier said, moving around the chair.
Camilo was sobbing, his body wracked by pain as he spasmed out of the chair and into the floor, gripping his left hand. Xavier slumped. “I don’t have time for this.” He looked at his third lieutenant. “Get him up!”
Wasting no time, Xavier repeated the process on the right thumb, this time allowing his lieutenant to assist him in holding the squalling Camilo’s arm. He wrenched Camilo’s thumb after it had popped, doing more damage than the first as punishment for his womanly crying. Finished, Xavier personally retrieved two plastic bags filled with ice, tossed them on Camilo’s lap, and said, “Get that little girl out of here.”
When the lieutenants had gone, Xavier turned the music up, retrieving an icy Rosita lager and easing himself, nude, into the hot tub on the porch.
Camilo’s sacrifice had left Xavier temporarily sated.
* * *
Gage’s arrival at the meeting with Navarro was traditional this time. As requested, Valentin picked him up in a small town near the coast. They drove several kilometers before ascending a steep driveway with numerous switchbacks. Cresting the hill, Gage took in the residence that Navarro termed a “casita.”
Gage had expected a lavish, modern residence with infinity pools and massive windows. Instead, what he found was a rustic Spanish home, surrounded by lush vegetation in a manner that looked natural but well-ordered. The home was squat and weathered, built with numerous arches and accented in black iron and natural wood. The upper driveway as well as the walkway were covered in crushed shells. To the right of the home, Gage spied the Mediterranean between the numerous cade junipers. While certainly the price of such a seaside retreat would be staggering, its appearance managed to avoid pretention.
The inside of the home could have been photographed and used as an example of a Spanish mansion from the 1930’s. The tiled kitchen, while handsome, claimed no modern appliances that Gage noticed. It was illuminated by skylights and, though inactive at the moment, held the pleasant smell of a well-used culinary kitchen. The second room they passed through, a dark sitting room with a sunken floor, contained only books, newspapers and leather furniture. There were no televisions, no digital clocks, no mobile phone docking stations. Two large dogs, gray and resembling wolves, slumbered in the sunken area of the room, just in front of the dormant fireplace. One dog opened his eyes, viewed Gage with mild interest, and resumed his sleep.
Valentin stepped through the rear door. Gage followed him, ending on an elevated porch with ocean views. He turned, able to get a better view of the home from this angle since the front had been greatly obscured by vegetation. As Valentin had mentioned, there was at least a hundred feet of jagged cliff above them. The house was nestled on a broad ledge, with another fifty-foot drop to the sea below it. Hands behind his back, Gage slowly walked the perimeter of the large porch.
There were four bulky chairs in Danish modern style situated between massive planters of flowers and, on the matching table in the center, a pitcher of a red, fruity drink with empty glasses nearby. Peering over the railing, Gage found Navarro, one level down. He’d just stood and was donning a terry robe over his deeply tanned body.
“Good day, Mister Harris. I’m coming up.”
An attractive woman was busy packing up a massage table. She glanced up and smiled.
Hearing another voice, Gage turned and looked inside through the open door from which he had come, seeing Valentin leading another man outside. He was small and well-dressed in casual attire, coolly eyeing Gage while Navarro noisily clanged his way up a set of spiral black iron stairs.
“I apologize for my appearance,” Navarro said. “I should have taken my massage earlier.”
Navarro shook Gage’s hand. “Might we use your actual name since we’re in a private setting?”
“That’s fine.”
“Excellent.” Navarro gestured to the diminutive man. “Mister Hartline, please meet Señor Cortez Redon. Señor Redon is the senior acusador for this area, similar to a state attorney in the U.S.”
Gage viewed Redon more closely. His head was ringed by a salt-and-pepper Caesar crown and he had a thin, aristocratic face with a sharp nose. Redon’s eyes were dark blue and he seemed to be measuring Gage’s soul with his deep gaze. Without a trace of warmth, Redon offered his hand and Gage reluctantly took it.
“Redon’s presence here is private, of course.”
Gage said nothing.
“A wizard with the law, he has deftly crafted a method to legally place you in Berga that should give you an excellent sense of security.”
Gage held up a protesting hand. “Señor Navarro, as you know, I have not yet—”
“Don’t say it,” Navarro said severely but without venom. He softened his face. “Don’t decline me just yet, Mister Hartline. Hear us out. Once you know the specifics, you might change your mind.” Navarro gestured to a grouping of chairs. A pitcher of Sangria sweated on the center table. When offered a drink, no one accepted.
“Mister Hartline, what we’re going to speak of today is of the highest confidentiality,” Redon said, his English perfect though heavily accented.
Gage leaned forward and made his voice stern. “There is no need for a preamble about confidentiality. I’m here because I’m trusted by Señor Navarro. Anything that’s said here is between us. Period. Now, at the risk of being rude but in the interest of wasting no one’s time, please get on with it.”
Redon, like most hardened career attorneys, seemed unoffended by the mild rebuke. He turned to Navarro, who nodded.
“Very well,” Redon said. “Some time ago, when Señor Navarro approached me about inserting a man into the infamous Berga Prisión as a prisoner, with the directive of protecting his son, I initially felt there was no good way possible to do such a thing. After doing research, I learned that there were few guards or employees of the privately-run prison that I could trust enough to confide in.” He inclined his head to Navarro. “Despite this, and after considerable resolve and persistence on the part of Señor Navarro…”
Money in your pockets, Gage thought.
“…I developed a plan that is not only tenable, it’s also perfectly legal.”
Gage waited and, when Redon didn’t speak, he said, “And that is?”
Redon smiled triumphantly. “Inserting you as a paid undercover agent of th
is government under the guise of a narcotics investigation.”
There was a bout of verbal silence. Down below, waves could be heard lolling westward, building, building, then finally crashing into the rocks. Birds skittered about in the trees above, going on about this or that. Gage could feel Navarro’s eyes lasering his face from the right. He turned to the man, watching as he removed his Dunhills from the thick robe, taking one out and tapping the filter end on his lighter. After a half a minute he lit the cigarette, blowing white smoke into the air.
“Mister Hartline?” Redon asked.
Gage moistened his lips, surprised at the words that emerged from his own mouth as he said, “That changes things, but only slightly.”
Optimism descended upon the Spanish duo. “Why only slightly?” Redon asked, showing a toothy smile that Gage could easily envision being wielded against unsuspecting juries. “This is a good plan and gives us great latitude.”
“Be that as it may,” Gage said, “since you trust no one in that prison, can you imagine what will happen if I’m somehow exposed as an undercover narc? I might as well have a bulls-eye tattooed on my forehead.”
Gage quickly moved on. “And, as I’ve already told Señor Navarro, my skills don’t seamlessly transition to a prison. I’m trained in open tactics. I specialize in weapons, military technology, reconnaissance and surprise to gain the advantage over opponents. Most of all, I prefer nonviolent resolutions.” Poking a finger into his own chest, Gage finished by saying, “I’m over forty years of age. While I’m confident in taking care of myself in most situations, I don’t have any illusions about fending off a dozen prisoners who are dead-set on killing me...or worse.”
“Two people know about this, Mister Hartline,” Navarro said solemnly. “Myself and Redon. Even Valentin doesn’t know what we’re meeting about.”
“It’s an excellent plan and worth the associated risk,” Redon added. “The sort of money you’ve been offered is unheard of.”
Gage leaned forward. “Since we’re all being open, I feel compelled to bring something else up. It’s sensitive.”
“As you said, this is a time to be direct,” Navarro said, smoke escaping his mouth as he talked.
Gage aimed a finger at Redon. “You are an agent of the government and Señor Navarro is a known head of an organized crime syndicate. The very fact that you’re in bed with him prevents me from trusting you whatsoever.”
Redon’s tanned face and neck reddened. He pressed his lips tightly together as his eyes blazed. A shiver went through his petite body. Finally, when the boiler could hold the pressure no longer, he stood and began shouting at Gage in Spanish, gesticulating as he spoke, pounding his narrow chest with one hand while the other pointed to Gage, to Navarro, to the heavens and, oddly enough, to the sea. Gage made his own face placid as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he watched the little man’s tirade without affectation.
Navarro glared at Redon.
Valentin appeared briefly, a cigarette dangling from his mouth as he peeked out the window.
Even the two dogs walked to the door, cocking their heads at the outburst.
No one intervened and, when Redon had yelled himself out, he looked spent and without a clue of what to do next. He turned to Navarro who motioned him to sit.
Switching to English, Redon said, “This American prick insulted my name.”
“Well, if you can’t get over it, then let’s me and you take a walk down to the beach and settle things like men,” Gage said with a warm smile.
Redon turned his eyes downward.
Thought so.
“Mister Hartline is correct in his reservations,” Navarro said. “What he said is the truth. And, Cortez, do not have such an outburst in my home ever again.”
Redon looked at Navarro as if he’d been slapped. “I’m sorry, señor, but for this…this jodido American to have the gall to—”
“Get on with it,” Navarro said, cutting Redon off.
The small lawyer wiped his hands on his slacks and regained his composure. “These are the facts. Knowledge of this operation is confined to this group. I have gone to great lengths to create your identity in our justice system. I have manufactured an undercover package that will insert you into the prison under the guise of the crime of murder in the second degree.”
“Murder is a respected crime in Berga,” Navarro interjected, crushing out his cigarette.
Redon continued. “To provide redundancy, in the unlikely event something was to happen to me, I’ve created a package of affidavits certifying you as an undercover agent. You’ll get a copy and will want to place it somewhere safe. In the event of an emergency, this information can be shown to our government, or yours through your state department, and will provide you with a safe and expedient exit from Berga Prisión.”
Navarro leaned forward. “We can stay here and talk all night, Mister Hartline. The job, admittedly, is perilous and will certainly be difficult every day you’re there.” He rested his hand on Gage’s knee. “I know you said your skills aren’t a seamless transition to this situation…but whose are? Prisons, this one especially, are gladiator arenas devoid of sanity and absent of reason.” Navarro’s sun-spotted hand tightened on Gage’s leg. “My son is all I have. He is not perfect, nor am I. I’ve offered you significant compensation for attempting this and now I ask you…I beg you, señor…please go to Berga for thirty days and, while you’re there, consider staying for the balance of time.”
Gage listened to Navarro, pondering everything he’d said, nodding thoughtfully afterward. “Might we discuss the entire process in more detail, item by item, including what you know of the day-to-day activity in the prison?”
“Of course.”
The three men talked for another hour before moving inside as the Mediterranean chill swept over the coast. They covered everything from Gage’s background story to the “crime” he committed, and to the amnesty he would receive if he were to be accused of a crime while in prison. They spoke about Navarro’s son, Cesar, and the people he claimed were his enemies in the prison. Navarro told Gage, according to Cesar, the primary threat was from a rival Spanish crime syndicate known as Los Leones.
“Cesar will gladly fill you in on exactly who the aggressors are, Señor Hartline,” Navarro said. “Los Leones have been nothing more than an irritating insect for decades. But, perhaps due to my age and my softening demeanor, they’ve made huge strides in the last years.” He leaned back, growing misty. “I’ve made significant efforts at legitimizing my empire, Mister Hartline. No, I haven’t completely stopped my criminal activity, but I’ve ceased all violent operations.”
“You sell drugs, don’t you?” Gage asked unapologetically.
Navarro shrugged. “People will get drugs, Mister Hartline, whether or not I sell them. I realize such justification doesn’t sit well with some people. But it’s my belief.”
They spoke further about life inside Berga Prison. Nearly three hours after arriving, when Gage had been briefed on everything he could imagine, Señor Navarro showed Gage a leather briefcase containing the euro equivalent of one hundred thousand dollars. The bills were in small denominations and were all well used. Navarro promised that they were clean and unmarked.
“This money is all yours as soon as you agree to the first thirty days.” Navarro closed the briefcase and set it aside.
Redon, his tone and mood chilly, walked Gage through the insertion package along with the signed affidavits, bearing the stamps and seals of the country of Spain and the autonomous region of Catalonia. “You can have a copy once you agree to go.”
“When would you like an answer?” Gage asked Señor Navarro.
“Tomorrow.”
“Then my answer is already no.”
Navarro frowned. “How long do you need?”
“I want a week,” Gage said. “And, even with a week, I’m almost certain I will not take this job. If you need to find another man, I will understand.”
/> Gage noticed Redon shake his head at Navarro. The old mobster ignored the acusador’s advice as he said, “I wouldn’t normally give such time, Mister Hartline, but I like you. A week you want, and a week you shall have. Please answer me before the deadline has passed.”
“You have my word that I will,” Gage said, shaking hands with him.
“Valentin will take you back to your car.”
Gage ignored Cortez Redon and walked away, finding Valentin at the front door. They chatted idly on the short drive to Gage’s rental car. Once there, Valentin warned about the nighttime hazard of red deer on the rural roads of Catalonia.
Finally alone and motoring southward, Gage felt the thump of his own pulse as he thought about Ernesto Navarro’s audacious proposition.
Could I handle myself in a Spanish prison?
Gage’s mild intrigue mortified him.
It must be the onset of middle age, he thought, smiling to himself as he drove.
As rapidly as the excitement from the unknown struck him, it was washed away as he realized who awaited him in Tossa.
Justina…
* * *
Once the car had disappeared over the ridge of the driveway, Navarro and Redon retired to the sunken drawing room, taking crystal snifters of Gran Duque d’Alba brandy by the crackling fire. Navarro smoked pensively, staring into the flames, holding the snifter off the arm of the chair.
Redon spoke up. “Again, Señor Navarro, please accept my apologies for the outburst earlier. But I do not like that man.”
Navarro smoked.
There was a lengthy period of silence. Finally, Redon broke it. “Señor?”
Navarro turned eyes to him.
“Señor, why did you insist that we not tell Hartline about the others?”
The mobster’s mouth straightened. He didn’t reply.
“I guess you knew there was nothing to be gained,” Redon reasoned. “If this Hartline knew that the previous three men all died gruesome deaths in that prison, he’d have run the other way screaming.”
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