The Diaries - 01 (26 page)

“No phone calls,”
he said over the roof of the small car.

She stopped and
stared at him, pausing, nodding slightly.
 
Lips pursed, she turned and stalked away.
 
He watched her go, witnessing the
unmistakable gait of a pissed-off woman.

For a split
second, everything that had transpired disappeared.
 
The only other object in Gage Hartline’s
world was Monika Brink, and she was the most beautiful human being he’d ever
known.
 
Not in looks, though hers certainly
were striking, but it was her soul he loved.
 
She felt for the baby in that diary, the same way she felt for him.
 
For all the bad Gage had wrought in his life,
like the tattoo of Themis on his shoulder, Monika was his counterbalance.
 
And he owed it to her to get her out of this
predicament.
 
He continued to stare at
her, sauntering toward the drug store, her brown hair flipping side to side as
she surely wrestled with this maddening state of affairs.

“There’s a way out
of this,” he murmured.
 
“A way out that’s
correct, and just, and final.”
 
He just
didn’t know what it was.
 
Yet.

But his instinct
told him it was there, at his fingertips.

Monika disappeared
into the
apotheke
.
 
Gage blinked the thoughts away—he would have
to work on the plan later.

Back to work.

He pulled his black
watch cap down tightly over his head, kneeling to the ground as if tying his
shoe.
 
He searched until he was able to
find a jagged pebble, sticking it in his right shoe under his heel.
 
Genuinely limping from the rock’s pressure on
his heel, hunching over to conceal his stature, Gage made his way toward his
flat on
Wiesenstrasse
.
 
Once his flat was in view, he stepped to the
small
imbiss
attached to a news kiosk at the corner,
near the S-
bahn
station.
 
The owner wasn’t working; the
imbiss
was being manned by a young girl Gage had never seen
before.
 
She appeared Turkish and didn’t
give the
stubbled
, mussed stranger a second
look.
 

Gage purchased the
Frankfurt
Allgemeine
and two small bottles of water, placing one in the pocket of his pea coat.
 
Leaning on the small table, he glanced
through the paper until he found the European news section, all the while
keeping a wary eye on his street and flat.

There was nothing
in the paper about a murder in Metz; no big surprise since the paper had likely
been printed just after midnight.
 
He lifted
the paper to turn the page, using the action of folding the paper around to
allow him to scrutinize every building and automobile near his flat.

There was a white
BMW 3-series parked between Gage and his residence, and through the smoke glass
rear window he was nearly certain he could see the shadow of someone’s head in
the driver’s seat.
 
As he swilled his
water, he focused on the car, finally seeing the shadow of the head shift,
confirming his suspicions.
 
The car was,
perhaps, two-hundred meters from his flat, a perfect viewing distance.
 
Finishing his water, Gage wiped his mouth
with his sleeve and limped off the way he had come.

After Gage turned
right on
Feldstrasse
, he removed the rock from his
shoe and studied each alleyway as he made his way up the street.
 
In a smooth, well-practiced motion, he donned
his sunglasses and eyed the reddish building that shielded him from the BMW.
 
He stepped into the alley and said a silent
prayer that no dogs would bark at his presence.
 
The alleyway was tidy, between a row of apartment buildings and a German
meat shop known as a
Metzgerei
.
 
There was a familiar blue dumpster at the
end, smelling of meat and sausage, making Gage thankful it wasn’t summer; the
smell would be rancid.
 
He peered between
the dumpster and the edge of the butcher shop, having to move the dumpster
slightly to get a view of the BMW parked twenty meters away.
 
The profile was unmistakable.

Jean
Jenois
.
 
Sonofabitch
.
 
Sitting there, sucking on heavy French cigarettes,
watching Gage’s flat like an owl waiting for a mouse.

Gage stepped back,
leaning against the wall, thinking.
 
He wondered
if Jean knew about the diaries specifically, which Gage knew could be a
possibility based on the long delay that night, and the noises he’d made as he
removed them.
 
But could the thug Gage
had killed in Metz have been working for Jean?
 
Would Jean do that to Gage?
 
Gage
didn’t think so, but then again—

A schoolgirl was
bounding through the alley in his direction.
 
She stopped five feet from Gage, coming from the far end near the S-
bahn
stop, no doubt using the narrow throughway as a
shortcut.
 
Her pink backpack bounced
against her blue and white school uniform as she skipped along, seeming to have
not a care in the world.
 
Given the time,
if she was headed to school she was late.
 
That thought never occurred to Gage.
 
What did bother him, as she stopped cold ten feet away, was her
expression.
 
She stared up at him
wide-eyed, her rosebud mouth circled into a small O.
 
It was as if she was looking right through
him.

“What’s wrong?”
Gage asked in German.

She didn’t answer.

“You shouldn’t be
here right now,” Gage said, irritated.
 
He
put his sunglasses into his pocket, narrowing his eyes at her as she continued
to stare.
 
“What’s your problem?”

She was probably
twelve, but she spoke like a smart-alecky fifteen year old.
 
“I don’t have a problem.”

“Well why are you
standing there?”

She cocked her
head slightly.
 
Adjusted her pack.
 
Gage realized she wasn’t looking at him—she
was looking past him.
 
“Because that’s
the first gun I’ve ever seen.”

Gage’s arched eyebrows
dropped.
 
“What gun?”

The girl raised
her
mittened
hand, pointing.
 
“That one.”

Gage’s thoughts
were interrupted by the unmistakable click of a pistol’s hammer being cocked.
 

Shit.

“Bonjour, Gage.”
It was Jean—his tone cheery, icy.
 
He
turned to the girl and smiled.
 
“Young
lady, I’m a policeman; this man is a criminal.
 
Run along now; get to school before I take you in for cutting
class.”
 
The girl sprinted to the
sidewalk and turned right, disappearing from sight, her footsteps fading away
in the light din of the day.

Gage closed his
eyes.
 
He’d forgotten Jean had previously
been Legion and a field agent, still able to move as silently as a hungry cat
on the prowl.

Shit indeed.

***

Jean’s moves were
tight and focused.
 
He pointed Gage up
the alley, shoving him to an open maintenance shed at the bottom of one of the
alleyway buildings.
 
Once shoved inside,
Gage immediately was awash in the smells of lubricating oil and damp
earth.
 
His eyes wandered the racks of
tools and implements, looking for something he could possibly use, some way out
of this mess with this Frenchman he’d never trusted, but had to work with only
out of monetary necessity.

“No, no, Gage.”
 
Jean waved the revolver, directing him.
 
“Stand right in the middle and lace your
hands over your throat.
 
I want to be
able to see your hands and all ten of your grubby fingers.”
 
As Gage did as he was told, Jean pulled the
door.
 
Vertical strips of dull light bled
through large gaps in the heavy wooden door, illuminating the dusty air that jumped
with Jean’s every spoken word. “You’re in some deep shit, Gage.
 
Really deep.”

Gage blinked.
 
“What the hell are you talking about?”

Jean arched his
waxed eyebrows, giving him a look of mock surprise.
 
“What am I talking about?”
 
He snorted.
 
“Don’t underestimate me, Gage.
 
I’m like a spider, and my web covers all of Europe.
 
This is my kingdom: Germany, France, England,
even Monaco.
 
I could find out the
actions of any man, woman, or child in an hour if I wanted to.
 
We French are constantly underestimated,
oui
?
”
 
He narrowed his eyes, locked on Gage’s reaction. “I know exactly what
happened.”
   

“Look, Jean,” Gage
started, hoping Jean didn’t know a damned thing but was simply trying to smoke
out information.
 
“I have no idea what
the hell you’re talking about.
 
All I
know is I was coming home and saw a white BMW in a likely surveillance position.
 
I’ve been doing this long enough to know
when someone is watching my home, and I always check.
 
Always.
 
I have enemies I probably don’t even know about.”

Jean lifted his
chin, his words cutting like a blade.
 
“The
man you killed Monday night, he was a powerful mobster.”

Gage was struck
silent for a moment.
 
Finally,
unconvincingly, he continued his ruse.
 
“What
are you talking about?”

Jean held the
revolver at center mass.
 
“No funny
moves, Gage.”
 
In a swift motion, he
retrieved his cigarettes with his left hand, getting one into his mouth.
 
He replaced them and dug out his expensive-looking
Zippo, lighting it.
 
Jean squinted, the
cigarette clamped in his teeth as the smoke shrouded his face.
 
“So you’re denying it?”

“I don’t even know
what you’re referring to.”

“They identified
you, Gage.
 
Your name and identification
is out in the underworld.
 
You’re a
walking corpse.
 
Now…would you like to deny
that you killed a mobster, in a rare bookstore, in
Metz, France
on Monday night?”

Gage decided to
remain quiet.
 
His pulse was evident
everywhere in his body.
 
His mouth was
parched.
 
Thankfully the space was dark,
because his head was pounding and he would otherwise need his sunglasses.

“I’ll take your
silence as your assent.”
 
Jean pulled on
the cigarette.
 
“Well, I have some bad,
bad news for you, Gage.
 
The man’s name
was Leon Clavier.
 
He’s a crew leader in
the central French mob known as
Les Glaives
du
Peuple
…
The
Swords of the People
in English.
 
They’re a leftover from the labor wars of the fifties, now just common criminals.
 
They sometimes clash with the
Unione
Corse, sometimes work with them.”
 
Jean inhaled again on the cigarette, clearly
enjoying the moment as the corners of his mouth peaked.
 
“Let me correct myself: common criminals,
yes, but uncommonly capable and even more dangerous.
 
For someone like you,
sponsorless
,
they’re a Medusa and will never go away.
 
Highly secretive and with memories far longer than that of even
Cosa
Nostra, they’re connected inside our judicial system
and even—”

“With the DGSE,”
Gage finished with a grim stare.
 
“Or you
wouldn’t be here talking to me.”

Jean’s smirk
disappeared as he dipped his head.
 
“Touché, Gage.”

“If I did kill
anyone—you know this—it would be
only
in self-defense.
 
I don’t do heavy work
anymore.”

“And who said you
were working for someone?” Jean asked, laughing.

Gage knew, right
then, that Jean knew about the diaries.

Jean spoke
conspiratorially.
 
“These are not reasonable
men, Gage.
 
They live insane, violent
lifestyles and swear by even crazier codes.
 
When I was a boy, a man on our block, a father of three, was castrated
in front of two of his sons for winking at the wife of a Glaive.
 
They used a dull knife to do it, stuffing his
balls in his mouth afterward, sending him home as if nothing happened.”

“So,” Gage
deadpanned.

“Gage, the man you
killed was Nicky Arnaud’s cousin.
 
His
childhood friend.
 
Clavier was a fucking
idiot and Arnaud has always looked after him.
 
He won’t stop until he has your head, and the heads of anyone you know.”