The profession of career criminal is not unlike many potentially violent occupations because, naturally, aggressive men tend to gravitate toward it. Some people, for whatever reason, enjoy the idea of inflicting pain. Marcel Cherbourg wasn’t one of those men. To him, violence was a useful tool, but to be used sparingly. It was much more effective that way.
All throughout his childhood, Marcel’s mother exploded in rage several times each day. It eventually grew to where Marcel ignored her—and his father certainly did. Even in Les Glaives du Peuple, one must earn the respect of his charges. This is why, Marcel surmised, Nicky Arnaud wouldn’t be around very much longer. No one was impressed by his outbursts. His anger was without value. The theatrics, the posturing: all obvious signals of classic little-man syndrome.
Marcel preferred to use his father’s method of quietly evaluating each situation. As a boy, growing up in the Paris suburb of Montreuile, surrounded by the communists and the working class, Marcel would spend the weekends by his father’s side, watching him build furniture at the neighborhood co-op. His father would work slowly, patiently, a Gitane filterless permanently hanging from his lips. Occasionally he would lift his head and run his large hand through his damp hair, squinting at the piece he was working on, measuring its form.
“We have a small challenge,” he would say quietly, not actually smiling at his boy, but giving Marcel the same feeling with the expression of his eyes. Each time this would happen, he would talk Marcel through the methods to solve the problem because, as his father always told him, “There is always a solution.” It was the beauty of working with wood. “While you and I may know it is flawed, what truly matters is whether or not the buyer can see the flaw.” He would allow Marcel to clamp the piece of wood with his hand as he shaved down the blemish with his awl.
He died when Marcel was in his early twenties. Cancer, of course. But his patient methods and his practice of allowing the challenges to come to him (and seeming to welcome them) lived on in Marcel.
Not too long ago, the quintessence of challenges had presented itself to Marcel.
Several years before, when Nicky had just ascended to the throne, a group of Glaives from Paris quietly suggested Marcel should make his play for the top spot. It would have required that Marcel murder Nicky. He would have had to send a message, a very public one. And as Nicky was now being reluctantly fellated on the toilet by an innocent young woman, Marcel pondered if he had made a mistake by not taking their advice. How many people had suffered due to his being hesitant to take what he had most likely deserved—and certainly what the people deserved? But like his father, Marcel had not rushed blindly into the situation. Instead, he had sat back, rubbed his chin and smoked a cigarette, evaluating the situation and each of the remedies. Because, as he had learned from the elder Cherbourg, oftentimes, the challenge would come back to him.
The vibration of his cell phone shook him from his thoughts. He glanced at the readout: it was from Bonn, Germany. It was their other contact, Günther. Marcel offered a one-word greeting. He listened a moment, eyes widening. After telling Günther he’d call back, Marcel hung up and ran down the stairs, rapping on the stall door.
“What?” Nicky screamed.
“The girl’s phone is active,” Marcel said with urgency, looking at the worn bottoms of the server’s shoes.
“Good. Give me a minute,” Nicky grunted back.
Marcel stood there a moment, hearing Nicky groan along with muffled protests from the girl. He turned and left.
It was two minutes before Nicky exited the restroom, looking significantly brighter but not missing that Marcel had finished his food. “Where?” he asked as he tightened his tie.
“Frankfurt.”
Nicky sat down, swirling a fresh glass of wine, inserting his nose in and taking a great whiff. “Should we go?” he asked, exhaling.
Marcel shook his head. “No. Too risky.”
“Who then?”
“Bruno and Luc. They’re in Metz, right by the border.”
“Call them,” Nicky commanded. As Marcel opened the phone, the young woman emerged from the stairs. With tears streaming down her face, she threw her apron at the maître d' and burst out the front door of the restaurant.
***
The hotel was old and dingy, located near the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof and only a few kilometers from where Gage had found the diaries that had set off this entire chain of events. Monika was curled on the small, lumpy bed. The room was brown. Every shade of it. Chocolate brown. Russet brown. Mahogany brown. The carpet, shit-brown, was tattered and worn. Monika had been sleeping for the last three hours as Gage peered out the window, watching the street and the train station. He had paid cash for the room and, while he didn’t think anyone knew their whereabouts, his training had taught him never to underestimate the ability of a motivated opponent. There were a million ways to find someone—from highly sophisticated to blind luck—and in the event Jean or the Glaives were out there, he wanted to see them coming.
He sat on the rickety chair, gnawing on the back of his thumb, thinking. Knowing his instincts had been right gave Gage no measure of pride. He wished he would have been wrong. But he wasn’t, and now he had a professional spy after him who would use the resources of the entire French government to find him. Worse, he had the mob after him. All because Monika’s cousin had termed the diaries as significantly valuable.
“Follow the money trail,” he breathed.
Other than the one diary in his bag, the remainder of the cache was in the storage unit. If he knew it would pacify the people connected with the man he killed in Metz, he would gladly give them over, especially for Monika’s sake. Surely they now knew who she was after making the connection with Michel. By this time, they would be swarming Saarbrücken, awaiting her return, probably harassing the women she worked with. They likely had no interest in her other than to get to Gage, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t kill her in the process.
He turned to look at her, napping peacefully. People deal with massive amounts of stress in different ways. She did it by sleeping. In certain lucky souls, it was their body’s way of defeating the all-encompassing problem. Gage, on the other hand, accrued skull-splitting headaches. Fortunately, for the moment, he felt good.
As Gage sat sentinel over his woman, his mind kept coming back to Jean Jenois. Jean was in bed with the Glaives, and claimed that the diary affair had a hidden significance. Gage ruefully shook his head. Jean was a liar, a greedy one. And he, too, would now be looking for Gage. He wanted the diaries—wanted the money they were worth—but he would now want to get even as well, especially given the size of his ego. Gage had humiliated him and, most worrisome was the fact that Jean knew his past, something which Gage was still having a hard time coming to grips with.
Three hours of solid thinking and Gage had no solution.
“What are you doing?”
Gage turned to Monika. She was still lying on the bed, her head turned to him, her expression pensive. Her caramel eyes looked larger than ever as she studied him, and he was relieved to see that the rest had calmed her somewhat.
“I’m thinking.”
“Have you got it figured out?”
“Wish I could tell you I did.”
Monika sat up, her breasts exposed before she lifted the bare sheet to cover them. She had taken a shower when they arrived and, after stripping the coverlet from the bed, she had wrapped herself in the sheet and asked him to turn the radiator higher. “Come to me.”
Gage took one final look at the train station before moving to the bed. “I’m sorry, Monika. I shouldn’t have involved you in this. It’s probably worse than I’ve let on.” Always on guard, his head turned to the window again.
Allowing the sheet to fall, she took his chin in her hands and turned it to her. Her gaze was intent. “So let’s just leave.”
“Leave?”
“Let’s get all of the diaries and just go, for good.”
Gage
stared at her, his mouth moving without making a sound. He was trying to make sense of this option, one he had not seriously considered. It had briefly crossed his mind earlier, but he wouldn’t allow his mind the luxury of even going over it. Had he been all alone, this would have been the best decision—the only decision. But Monika was German, this was her home. She had a family and a job and an education—she had a life. He didn’t think, not for a moment, that she would just up and leave with a man whom she had just begun a relationship, one that had not even yet been defined.
Finally he replied. “You can’t mean that. Your sister and mother are here.”
Monika rubbed his muscular forearm, allowing her index finger to trace the veins onto his powerful hands, which she clasped, interlocking her fingers with his. “I never allowed myself to get too close to you, Gage. I always knew there was something beneath the surface with you, something frightening that I had nothing to do with, and I feared it would always keep us apart. But now I see that maybe this is our chance. Maybe this is the precipitous event we needed.” She kissed his hand. “I need you to be close to me, with your mind and not just your body. I can’t just be the girl who makes your food, rubs your shoulders and sleeps with you sometimes.” She squeezed his hand very hard. “I need to be the one who you confide in about why you are the way you are. Do you understand?”
Gage’s chest rose and fell. His heart was racing, his breathing full and heavy. “You really mean it, about leaving?”
“No, I don’t. Not if you won’t open up to me.” She disentangled her hand from his.
“And if I will?”
“Then I am ready and willing,” she answered, her face glowing. “Because then we will have a chance.”
Gage’s mind raced, pondering the way out. Like a fast-growing seed, it split open and began to grow roots. Simply leaving Frankfurt would be the most dangerous part of the mission. As his thoughts were somewhere in Switzerland, she stood from the bed, grabbing her wallet from her purse.
“I have just over six-thousand euro in the bank. Let’s take the train to Munich or Hamburg, far from where they think we are. Let’s grab my money, combine it with yours, and then we’ll run. They won’t be able to catch up to us if we’re already hundreds of kilometers from where they think we are.” Monika came close to him, her naked body close to his face as she tousled his already messy hair. “We can rent a car from there, take the diaries to Italy or Spain, and sell them like my cousin said. Then, just like in the movies, you can find us new identities and we can leave Europe, for good.”
Gage was entranced. While her plan was somewhat simplistic, the broad strokes were not at all unlike what he was already thinking. Exposing themselves, anywhere, would be risky, especially if Jean was using his assets against Gage. But it was the only solution Gage could now see. He glanced out the window; a light rain had begun to fall, flecking the window with straight streaks, increasing his confidence in regard to the cameras which now permeated most major cities. Rain or not, they would need to alter their appearance.
He placed his hand on her lower back, hugging her. “If you mean it, really mean it, we need to go. Tonight.”
“I’m ready right now,” she said, touching his cheek.
“We’ll have to wait for nightfall.”
Monika was beaming. “The sooner the better.”
“Monika,” Gage said, eyeing her levelly. “We can’t come back. Ever.”
“I know that, Gage.” She touched his leg. “I’ve already thought it through.”
Snapping back to the task at hand, he glanced at his Timex. “I’d rather we wait until it’s at least midnight, and hold out hope it keeps raining.”
“What about the diaries?” she asked.
“I’m going to go get them.”
“We are,” Monika proclaimed.
Gage shook his head with conviction. “No way. They may know where I hid the cache, or perhaps they tracked me to the vicinity. I will do that all alone and you’ll wait for me right here.”
She obviously knew not to argue.
“And I’ll need to get us some things from the Apotheke. Some hair dye and makeup. And we’ll probably need to cut and dye your hair, and mine,” he said, pulling lightly on her luxurious dark locks.
“I’ll let you go alone,” Monika said, still massaging his head as she stared into his eyes. “But not before I settle you down.”
“Settle me down?” he asked.
She lowered herself to him, pressing her large, soft breasts into his face as they fell back onto the bed. Taking his right hand, Monika moved it between her legs, sighing softly as he caressed her.
Gage felt his throat nearly close up. He moved upward and kissed her, allowing her to pull his sweater over his head. They rolled over. He moved his head down her body before she stopped him. She leaned forward and unbuttoned his jeans; he aided her by getting them off in a rush. Monika caressed his buttocks and pulled him into her. She controlled his motions, licking his neck and kissing his mouth. They took their time for half an hour before she moved on top of him, her actions speeding and her chest bouncing with each thrust. She grasped his body, pulling him close as they moved together briskly, with her climax coming just before his. Their bodies damp with a thin layer of perspiration, Monika stayed on him as she pressed her cheek to his. She stared out the window into the rainy, darkening sky and spoke softly.
“I love you, Gage. I have for many, many months.”
Gage had never told another woman he loved her. And this was the first time he had ever heard it said to him. Before he could respond, Monika covered his lips with her finger.
“Save it, Gage. There will be plenty of time later to explore our feelings for each other.”
After a hot shower, Gage pulled on his dirty clothes and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ve got to go. Do not—I repeat—do not move a muscle or call anyone.”
“Gage—”
“If I don’t come back by sunup, just go to the polizei and tell them everything. Go straight to their outpost right over there at the train station. Do you understand?”
“How long will you be gone?” she asked.
“Shouldn’t be more than an hour and a half, but it could take longer. Why don’t you get some more rest? We may be awake for quite a while.” Gage reached into the pocket of his pea coat and removed Jean’s pistol, a handsome Manurhin .357. He placed it on the bed at her feet. “Ever used one?”
“I hate guns,” she answered.
“Monika. Just in case.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. I’m sure I can figure it out if I have to. Point and shoot,” she mimed in a comical manner. “Like you said, they have no idea where we are so it doesn’t matter.”
Gage couldn’t help but start laughing, an enormous weight off his chest from her suggestion that they leave Germany. Now she was just being funny, but then her face took on a serious expression.
“Be careful, Gage. Very careful.” She leaned up and kissed him, rubbing his face with her hand before placing it behind his neck and shaking him lightly. “And when you return, we start our life together.”
“Zusammen,” he agreed, speaking her native tongue. He pulled on his coat and, without another word, he was gone, locking the door behind him.
***
Monika retrieved the diary from the bag, nestling back into her semi-comfortable sleep spot on the lumpy bed. She was nearing the end of the 1938 entries, reading another passage about Greta’s thoughtful new husband, Heinrich. She turned her eyes beside the bed, to the dinged-up nightstand. On the top sat an old push-button phone, the brown handle marked by years of palm sweat and face oil. Monika rolled over, opening the drawer. A phone book, out of date but still viable for what she wanted. She pulled the thick book to the bed, opening it. Her fingers went to the J’s, but she didn’t find what she was looking for. She checked the H’s, for der Holocaust. No.
She closed her eyes, trying to envision the rows and rows of embassies and
consulates just outside of the financial district. In the warmer months, she and Gage had walked by the Center ten times.
The Center!
Something-something-Center. The name of the institute, the center, is named after a man’s name…Isaac something…
Monika tugged on her hair with both hands. “Argh.”
The sign out front listed the cities the center existed in: New York, Amsterdam, Tel Aviv, Warsaw…
Isaac. Isaac what?
She racked her brain for five full minutes, and was just sliding the book back into the drawer when the name hit her—the Isaac Bettelheim Center! New York, Amsterdam, Tel Aviv, Warsaw, and Frankfurt. Monica flipped through the book, finding the number. As the phone rang, she shot a glance at her watch. Five until six.
“Hallo?”
Monika fingered the diary. “Could you please put me through to whoever helps locate displaced people?”
“One moment.” A long period of silence. Click.
“Ja?” A woman.
“I’m hoping you might help me locate someone.”
“Of course.”
“Wonderful! The last name…well…where we would need to start is Heinrich Morgenstern of—”
“Young lady,” the woman said, cutting her off. “Before you get in to all that, you’ll need to bring two forms of identification down here with, of course, a certified consent form or a court order. The consent form can be printed from our website and needs to have a seal from—”
“You can’t help me on the phone?” she asked, interrupting what sounded like a boilerplate rejection speech.
“No, I can’t.” It was nearly six o’clock, and the woman’s tone of voice sounded like it, short and snippy. “And once you get all these items, searches take a minimum of fourteen days.”
Monika let out a loud breath. “And if this call happens to be an emergency?”
“Then call someplace else. I can’t help you.”
“Okay, then,” Monika said. “When do you close?”
The Diaries - A Gage Hartline Espionage Thriller (#1) Page 20
