There actually was a crisis at the moment—Gage was nearly broke; certainly not the type of emergency he had planned for when setting up his crisis escape fund. As he stared at the ATM receipt, he determined that he had only enough money to make the rent and buy groceries for two more weeks. And even to do that would require a frugal effort, making him wonder what Monika’s visit would cost him. She was always willing to pay; but up until this point he’d managed to avoid that.
Gage pulled at both ends of the receipt, squeezing his eyes shut. Damn it, things were not going at all like he had hoped. An unwelcome thought bloomed from a dark corner of his mind. Gage knew, if he became desperate, if he truly ever reached the end of his rope, he could put the word out that he was willing to do wet work.
Because violence pays well.
It pays well in the United States. In the Middle East. And even in Liechtenstein.
No, he thought as he headed back to the flat, even if I run broke I’m not ever going to do that again. I’d rather dig ditches than have to hurt someone.
Gage ended his evening by building a small fire and reading a few collected articles about his friends in the British SAS. As the fire danced and crackled, it provided him with the slightest amount of joy and warmth, bringing back warm memories of childhood before his mind eventually turned to Monika. She would be coming to visit on Sunday. And whenever she was near all problems seemed to evaporate, especially the horrid memory that had gnawed at him for the last three years.
Even with the relaxing fire, the reading, and the thoughts of the one he loved, Gage had trouble falling asleep. He always did. The headache gripped his optical nerves like a rusty vise, clamping down further with each passing minute. On this night it eventually resulted in flash blindness for Gage. All he could do was extinguish all sources of light and clench his eyes shut in the blackness, praying for sleep.
When he finally managed to doze off for four hours, the sleep was fitful.
***
Paris, France
The trees lining the streets of Paris’s 16th Arrondissement rustled as the cold autumn breeze whispered through their remaining leaves, pushing in from the east, rushing over the Seine and past Chaillot Palace before dissipating in the upscale urban landscape. The occasional tourist wandered back into the depths of the 16th; however, most of the pedestrians beyond the palace consisted of the wealthy residents. Smug, self-satisfied men with thick beards, carrying their pipe and classic literary novel, headed to the brasserie for wine, banter, and perhaps a chapter of reading. During the day, an abundance of foreign au pairs pushed baby strollers, some containing as many as three young children—their mother off shopping or having tea. It was a neighborhood where numerous international celebrities owned apartments, able to recharge creative juices in Paris without having to be mobbed every time they stepped out the door—because everyone in this area of the 16th felt they were some sort of icon, so why should they (and why would they?) stop and fawn over another?
The dark night was punctured by the purplish halogen headlamps of the long black Mercedes S65. It turned onto Rue Nicolo, its low profile tires gliding over the damp leaves of the street. The windows were darkened, the Benz oozing exclusivity as it turned into the curved driveway of the two-story mansion. The house had been recently purchased, formerly owned by an aging, once-famous French movie director who had hung himself from the balustrade in what turned out to be a gripping final scene. The home sat empty for the better part of a year, until Aristide Fersen and his wife Marie moved to Paris, their faces bronzed from the years spent in Brazil. The real estate broker was duly impressed as Aristide wired in the full amount, never even bothering to negotiate—something the broker had been authorized to do in an effort to get the sizeable balance off of the bank’s books.
The front door opened and closed; the two residents stepped into the home and went their separate ways, the way husbands and wives often do. Marie kicked off her high-heels before she padded up the stairs, removing the pearl earrings one by one, then unzipping the back of the cocktail dress and disappearing into the bedroom at the rear of the second floor.
Aristide turned left, crossing the sitting room before moving into his new study. He was a slight man with a small, surgically altered nose and slicked-back salt and pepper hair. From the table next to his desk, he poured two fingers of Macallen 25-year and turned the tumbler up, draining every drop before repeating the process twice more.
Gulp. Slam. Pour. Gulp. Slam. Pour.
With his third double-shot in hand, Aristide began to feel himself again, the stress of the social event he’d just attended dissipating from his mind like fog on a windy morning. There were so many made up facts for him to memorize, and society people were just so damned nosy. Couldn’t they simply accept an attractive couple at face value? Did they have to know the many minutiae of someone’s past? Aristide exhaled loudly and slid his loafers off, enjoying the feel of the tightly-woven carpet under his thin stockings. He stared at the ghastly paintings on the wall, most of them purchased by the overfed decorator Marie had employed during the move. Nearly a million euro to decorate this place and pay that dreadful woman her fee. Marie is too damned trusting. But, he reminded himself, if he hoped to blend in with the inbred bourgeoisie he shared company with earlier in the evening, a home like this was an absolute necessity.
It was then that Aristide heard the sound.
He frowned, turning his head.
Music.
Tinny-sounding, coming from inside the kitchen.
It was samba music.
“Marie,” he yelled up the stairs. “Marie!”
She appeared on the landing, still rubbing her face with a small cloth, now wearing only her black bra and matching panties. She was taller than he, half-Egyptian, half-German. They’d been married less than two years. Like everyone else in his current life she thought he was a wealthy investment banker, knowing nothing of his checkered past.
“Why are you yelling?” Marie asked calmly.
“Come here,” he commanded, his eyes still aimed at the kitchen. He took her hand as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Before he could speak, she moved her other hand to his crotch, whispering throatily in his ear.
“It’s been almost two weeks. It’s been too long.”
Aristide jerked her hand away, gesturing down the hall. “Were you playing music?”
Marie cocked her head, listening to the light, distant tune. She lowered her finely plucked brows. “I despise samba music.”
“Well, who put it on?”
Rather than answering, Marie walked straight ahead. Aristide followed, feeling a shiver go down his spine as he allowed his mind to ponder—only for a split second—the unthinkable. But there was no way, no imaginable way. Eight years, numerous plastic surgeries, a weight loss of nearly thirty kilos, and the finest identity available on the planet earth.
“Stop it,” he muttered to himself.
Marie reached the kitchen island, her husband in tow. A small digital music player, illuminated by its own purple LED, sat on the stove, the Brazilian samba beat distorting its tiny speaker. The device provided just enough of a glow for Aristide to see Marie’s puzzled face. Just as she was about to speak, the far side of the room lit up as a man used a Zippo to light a long cigar.
Aristide had to grasp the counter for support—he knew the face behind the flame, knew it well.
Marie Fersen screamed so high the hanging Mauviel pots vibrated at the pitch-perfect note.
***
Marcel Cherbourg, Nicky’s chief advisor, stood in the shadows behind his boss. Such theatrics bored him, and coming to Pierre’s home like this was not only unnecessary, it was risky. Why involve the wife? Several tense conversations had occurred between Marcel and Nicky Arnaud, he of the lit cigar, over the previous days. It would have been best to quietly snatch Pierre (he refused to think of him as Aristide) and take him away, somewhere isolated, somewhere he could be dealt with. Quietly. Marcel ce
rtainly wasn’t a pacifist. Pierre was a lying, no-good thief. In Marcel’s eyes he deserved to die—after he gave up the money.
But this…this “performance” was simply too much. Among Nicky’s other unfortunate pastimes, he loved watching American B-movies, especially those of the post-World War II variety. The old noir films in black and white, where the men used words like “dame” and the women called everyone “dahhhling.” Nicky had watched so many of them that they had begun to color his own actions.
The scream died away as the striking wife of the former Pierre Ramzy, now Aristide Fersen, covered her mouth and cowered behind her diminutive husband. Pierre’s eyes were wide, his face a mask of horror, staring at Nicky as if the devil himself had entered his home.
“I see you lost some weight, bought yourself a new wife,” Nicky said calmly as he puffed the Montecristo, spinning it. When Pierre didn’t answer, Nicky stood, a full three inches shorter than anyone in the room. As he moved forward, another small man, and a large one, emerged from the shadows behind him. They grasped Pierre by his arms as Marie began her shrill scream again.
While the men muscled Pierre, Nicky cupped Marie’s face, shushing her as he led her to Marcel. Marcel couldn’t help but admire the woman’s form. She was well-kept for forty-something; he grew sad as he pondered what atrocities she might endure on this night. Leading her by her arm, Marcel took her into the walk-in pantry and flipped the light. He shook a Gauloises from the pack in his jacket pocket, giving one to her and lighting it. Using his foot, he slid the small step-stool from the corner and motioned her to sit. The lady’s face was streaked with mascara as she looked up at him, covering her bra with her left arm, her mouth trembling.
“They’re going to kill him?” she asked in a heavy accent of some sort.
Marcel closed his eyes but didn’t even need to nod. Her hysterics began again. Gritting his teeth, the Frenchman held his hands up, silencing her. “Listen to me. Listen. If you don’t remain quiet, it will end badly for you, too. Your husband, no matter what lies he told you, is a career criminal and, worse, a thief. He stole millions of euros, and francs before that, from his family. He also killed a man who was very close to me. Stabbed him in the back.”
Outside the pantry, Pierre’s scream punctuated Marcel’s explanation. Marie jumped, but to her credit, she remained quiet this time, sucking on the cigarette and looking back into Marcel’s eyes, pleading with her own.
He moved to leave, pointing his finger at her. “Stay in here; don’t move; stay quiet.”
“Will they kill me?” she asked, putting the back of her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.
“I don’t know,” Marcel answered truthfully. “But if you don’t stay quiet and cooperate when asked, I can assure you they will.” He placed three more cigarettes on the shelf and slipped back into the kitchen.
Pierre Ramzy’s tailored shirt had been ripped off, hanging around his waist. The remains of what Marcel guessed was Pierre’s undershirt was now being used by Nicky to swab his bleeding right hand, probably cut when he punched Pierre in his mouth. A light over the sink had been turned on and, confirming Marcel’s suspicions, he saw two teeth on the polished black granite floor.
His front two teeth missing, his lip bleeding profusely, Pierre began to sob, pleading incoherently. Nicky leaned over the already beaten man.
“What did you say Aristide?” he asked with contempt. “Now you want a reprieve? You make off with ten million in laundered money, kill my capitain, live like a fucking king on the beach, but now you want some mercy?” Nicky straightened, his belly shaking as he forced a bout of haunting, Vincent Price-like laughter.
Marcel had watched Nicky for years, knew his moods. Tonight would end badly. He’d seen it two days ago, when he’d first tried to talk sense into Nicky about this foolhardy plan. Saw it again today, in the car on the drive from Château-Thierry. Marcel was sick of it, sick of Nicky. It was at this moment he finally realized, after all these years, he absolutely hated the man he worked for.
The big one, Bruno, stepped closer to Pierre, his massive hand pulled back.
“Wait! Just wait! I admit what I did, and Gilbert was plotting to kill you anyway, Nicky.” The beaten man lowered his head, a line of blood and drool spilling out. With a sob he said, “He and I were in a race to get the money.”
Nicky turned to the group, opening his hands, a bright smile splitting his face. “Hear that? Now Pierre is telling me he did me a favor.”
Shaking from loud sobs, Pierre moaned his plea. “The money, Nicky…the ten million,” he lifted his head, “it’s now over thirty million, and you can have it all.”
“Oh, Pierre,” Nicky whispered. “Is it really worth that much?”
Pierre nodded hopefully.
Nicky clasped his hands in front of his chest, holding them to his heart. “Thank you, Pierre, thank you!” The bright, appreciative expression changed in an instant as Nicky’s right hand broke free and slapped Pierre across his face, making every person in the room flinch. After a pause and more cries from Pierre, Nicky leaned down and asked, “Did you actually think you could keep me from that money? My money? Did you actually think you have the right to give it to me? Know this: I get what I want.”
Pierre eyed Nicky as he defiantly shook his head back and forth, a weak attempt at grasping the upper hand. “You won’t get it unless you stop now. Do you hear me? You will not recover a single coin unless you agree to let us go.”
Nicky pulled his head back as if he had been the one who was slapped. He paused for a long moment, his eyes darting from person to person, like a snake deciding whom to strike. Finally he knelt and patted Leon, his cousin, on the knee. The two men of Greek ancestry locked eyes.
“You hear that, Leon? Sounds like quite a deal. Thirty million from ten, after ten year’s time. And all we have to do is let them go?”
Leon played along and shrugged, poking his lip out as if it might indeed be a good trade.
Nicky looked up at Bruno, who was flexing his bruiser’s hands, ready to punch. “You, Bruno?”
The man shook his big head, scarred by dozens of fistfights. “Let’s beat it out of him.”
Pierre whimpered but followed Nicky’s eyes to Marcel. “How about you, Marcel? Should we let our old friend go, take the trade?”
Marcel tightened his mouth. Hitched his head. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”
Nicky’s shoulders slumped, most likely frustrated that Marcel wasn’t playing along. “Marcel, again, should I take the deal?”
Marcel turned his head toward the front door. “Just one word alone, Nicky.”
Nicky looked at Leon, shook his head and exhaled loudly. He stepped around Pierre, who looked bewildered, scared and hopeful all at the same time. Marcel put his hand on Nicky’s shoulder and led him back into the entry hall.
“Can you please just let Bruno break his fingers, get the information, and let’s go? We’re running a number of risks here, and we don’t know anything about who Pierre is now associated with.”
Nicky took the advice with his eyes on the floor, nodding. When Marcel finished, he looked up, his voice a whisper. “You never want me to have any pleasure, do you?”
“My job is not about pleasure,” Marcel said flatly. “It’s about giving you advice that will do two things—keep you alive and make you more money.”
“Twenty years I’ve spent slaving to the Glaives. Now I sit on the throne and I can’t have just this one moment of bliss?” Nicky chewed his tongue as his eyes went over Marcel’s shoulders, looking into the kitchen where Leon was taunting Pierre, lightly slapping him and making him flinch. “I’m going to take my time with this one, Marcel. He killed one of us, and then he stole millions. Millions from the Glaives. And now I’m going to get my money’s worth.”
Marcel expected this response, counted on it actually. But he sought a concession, and so he had started high in the hopes Nicky might meet him halfway. “One other thing.”
Nicky had already started back to the kitchen but stopped, looking to the heavens. “What?”
“The wife, Nicky, she has had no part in this. There’s no reason to include her. She doesn’t know who he was nor does she know who we are. I can take her away, debrief her.”
“I bet you can,” Nicky answered, turning and laughing. “Did you see that ass? I bet you’re dying to debrief her, maybe in Cannes, on the beach.”
Marcel closed his eyes and shook his head, resting his arm on Nicky’s shoulder. “You and I both know he married her only two years ago. She’s of no consequence to us.”
Nicky windmilled his arm violently, knocking Marcel’s arm away. “Just stay back and shut the fuck up, Marcel. At the end of the day, it’s my decision.”
Marcel did as he was told, staying back and shutting the fuck up. He smoked a cigarette as Bruno belted Pierre in his stomach, again and again. After several minutes of working over his midsection, rather than let him get his breath and confess, Nicky lit the three gas burners. He turned their flames on the highest setting, throwing blue light around the kitchen. He had Bruno strip the thin man, and then the three of them muscled Pierre’s squirming body onto the lit burners.
Aristide Fersen, formerly Pierre Ramzy, writhed and jumped like a piece of fatty bacon as Leon and Bruno struggled to hold him down while laughing hysterically. He was literally being cooked alive and the acrid, one-of-a-kind smell of burned flesh filled the room. A purplish smoke, the result of scorched hair and skin, set off the smoke detector. Nicky raised his silenced pistol, shooting it center-mass in a hail of plastic and sparks. After a full minute of grilling the embezzler, Pierre fell unconscious. Nicky ordered him removed, spinning one of the chairs from the breakfast area for him to be placed in.
Marcel cringed as he saw the charred circles on the man’s back, watching as they split open upon his back stretching when Bruno lifted him. Nicky slapped the man’s face, finally waking him by dumping a glass of cold water over his head. The screams began again, loud and throaty from the pit of Pierre’s stomach. Nicky quieted him with a finger, like a parent might a toddler.
The Diaries - A Gage Hartline Espionage Thriller (#1) Page 2
