The Diaries - 01 (27 page)

Gage had heard of
Nicky Arnaud, talked about with the
Gottis
and
Mikhaylovs
of the world.
 
He’d been connected with numerous crimes and murders in the past few
years, probably a media darling because he was rumored as an eccentric with a
thirst for the bizarre.
 

“I do not know
Nicky Arnaud, or this Leon you’re talking about.”

Jean shook his
head.
 
“Nicky knows you, Gage.”

“Why you,
Jean?
 
If they think I had something to
do with a killing in Metz, why did they call
you?
”

Jean pointed the
cigarette at Gage. “Because this goes deeper than you realize, and they knew I
would find you.
 
I am now the only one
who can help you.”

“If you want to
help me, Jean, then let me walk, or maybe just raise that pistol and squeeze
off a bullet through my head.”

Jean cocked his
head, pausing for a moment.
 
“You’re
blustering, Gage, but I know enough about people to hear a shred of truth in
what you just said.”

Gage cut his eyes
away from Jean’s.

“I’ve heard the stories
about what happened.”

Gage returned his
gaze.

“You were involved
in an accident…an incident, rather.
 
One
with a grave loss of life.”

The air rushed in
and out of Gage’s nose as he wondered how Jean had heard such a thing.
 
“You’re wrong.”

“Am I,
Matthew?
”

Gage’s head jerked
up, staring incredulously at Jean.
 

Jean’s lips curled
upward, thinking about Henri’s delicious discovery deep in the DGSE’s file
system.
 
Tipped by two references to Crete
in Gage Hartline’s previous Internet searches, Henri cross-referenced it with
the DGSE’s own records.
 
Only one hit
showed.
 
The intelligence once used to
corner a group of terrorists in Crete three years earlier had been provided in
part by French intelligence.
 
In return, long
after the accident, they received a full mission brief.
  
The file was sealed, but sealed files can
always be viewed if one knows what he or she is doing. Jean read everything,
putting two and two together.
 
No names
were involved, but he knew Gage had been the one.
 
The lone dissenter, according to the report,
was proven correct.
 
He was also the one
who threw the deadly concussion grenade.

Jean’s voice was
soothing, knowing.
 
“Yes, yes, Matthew,
once I found the secret little squad you served with, I backtracked, finding
your original identity.
 
I know where you
trained, where you served, and where you grew up.”

Gage tried to
control his breathing.
 

“Other than
bashing Americans, the world’s second favorite pastime is, as I said,
underestimating the French.
 
I’d suggest
you try not to do it in the future.”
 
Jean dropped the cigarette to the floor, crushing it with his foot.
 
The pistol lowered just a bit.
 

Knowing eye
movement would spook Jean, Gage held his gaze steadily on the Frenchman.
 
His only actions, other than heavy breathing,
took place in his mind.

“I’ve read the unedited
Crete report, Gage.
 
Or Matthew.”
 
Jean ran his tongue over his narrow
teeth.
 
“You prefer Gage, don’t you?”
 

Gage felt his
cheek twitch involuntarily.

Jean cleared his
throat, continuing.
 
“The mission success
in Crete was rated as neutral to good.
 
Would’ve gotten four green stars had the two kids not died.”

Gage’s heart raced
and he could feel the heat growing from within his neck and face.
 
He swallowed once, keeping his bubbling
stomach acid at bay.

Jean twirled the
pistol at Gage’s head.
 
“What we do is
imperfect, Gage.
 
Sometimes our tasks are
impossible, unwinnable.
 
Like Metz.
 
It was unwinnable, because of the repercussions
you’re soon going to have to deal with.
 
But
I can help you; I’ll come back to that.”
 
Jean indulged himself in another cigarette, tapping it out carefully in
the contrast of the musky room.
 
“Now
back to Crete: if intel and spotters give you a green light, how are you
supposed to know there are two kids sleeping under a blanket on the floor?”
 
Jean’s eyes searched upward, the pistol
wavering as he appeared to be recalling what he had read.
 
“So, when you got the green, you lobbed a
flash-bang, trying to
preserve
life
before your team brought the threat of sure death through the front door of
those quasi-terrorists.
 
But the
concussion grenades are made to stop an eighty-five kilo man, not a child.
 
You couldn’t have known, Gage.”

Gage’s mind was a
clutter of emotions, but like a professional athlete or a stage actor during a
time of great distraction, he forced himself to focus on the current situation.
 
He remained silent and still.

Jean pinched the
cigarette in the corner of his mouth, narrowing his eyes at the American and
shrugging.
 
“You don’t have to accept my
compassion.
 
But I certainly hope you
will at least accept my help.”

Finally ready to
say something, Gage chose his words carefully.
 
“You’ve lowered yourself to being the tool of professional criminals.
 
You’re their whore, and you’re trying to
convince
me
that you’re here to help me?”

Jean’s face
blackened.
 
“Back to Crete, then.
 
And when those two collateral deaths made
their way up the chain, they dissolved your little team of assassins, leaving
you heavily debriefed, broke, without the sponsorship of the country you had so
faithfully served, and without a job.”
 
Jean chuckled, shaking his head.
 
“The
arrogant, self-centered Americans…I even heard they threatened to indict anyone
from your team who ever talked—said they would call your team a rogue element
and if anyone ever spoke of it they would slap you with murder indictments.”
 
Jean exhaled loudly, his posture relaxing.
 
“I’m sorry, Gage, but the superiority and
vanity of your government is a bit humorous to me.”

Gage only blinked.

“So now what do
you do?
 
Cowering in fear from your
imperialist régime, you take any job—any
nonviolent
job—that you can get.
 
But there aren’t
many, so it leaves you without means.
 
And
now your desperate situation causes you to compromise your ethics and includes
stealing—from
me
—and now that one bad
action has led to three murders.”

Gage narrowed his
eyes.

“Oh, that number
doesn’t add up?” Jean asked, his pointy teeth sparkling in his grin.
 
“Leon, Michel the book dealer, and his
employee.”
 

Gage remained
emotionless but knew Jean was now quite dialed in and reading even the
dilations of his pupils.
 

“Oh yes, I didn’t
tell you that,” Jean said, mockingly helpfully.
 
“Nicky killed him yesterday and learned all about you and your little
whore…after the man was cruelly tortured, of course.”

Chewing his tongue,
Gage pushed aside the gut-wrenching ache that an innocent’s death awoke in him.
 
He took heavier breaths.
 
Stay
here, Gage.
 
Don’t wander
.
 
His temples began to burn; pressure redlining
in his skull.
 
“Why don’t you get to the
supposed part about how exactly you’re going to help me?”

“The über-valuable
diaries, Gage: I’m going to take them from you, and then I’m going to give them
to the Glaives.
 
Afterward, you’re going
to disappear and I will use my resources to make you die, or so they will
think.
 
Once Nicky has your little dowry,
he’ll relent.
 
I can guarantee it.”

Gage snorted his
laughter.
 
It was forced, completely for
effect, before he drew out his two-word response, making sure his face looked
puzzled yet also relieved as he asked, “What diaries?”

Jean was skilled,
but he wasn’t so accomplished a performer as to prevent the momentary flash of
fear that shot across his face.
 
It was
as if he’d been jolted, if only for a fraction of a second, by a current of electricity.
 
When Gage asked him, ”What diaries?”, Jean’s
inner greed won out.
 
The query obviously
caused a thunderbolt of fear to run through the French agent that perhaps he
had the entire situation figured wrong.

After the moment
had passed, Jean recovered nicely.
 
“The
cache of diaries that made the dead book dealer cream in his bikini underwear,
Gage.
 
Those
diaries.”
 
He inched
closer.
 
“I know the Glaives are just
mobsters, but trust me, they’ll figure out how to squeeze the value out of
them.”

“They’re gone,
Jean.”
 
There it was again.
 
Jean, like Michel (and like a needful junkie),
was intoxicated by his habit—in this case, greed.
 
“But had I not already given them away,” Gage
studied him, “how much of their value were you going to skim after you auctioned
them off?”

Jean lifted the
pistol head high, licking his upper lip.
 
Before he responded, as his nervous habit dictated, he used his left
hand to raise the cigarette to his mouth.
 
He took a long pull.
 
It was the precise
moment Gage had been waiting for: Jean had grown relaxed, focusing more on a clever
response than watching the dangerous man before him.

Covering the six
feet in a fraction of a second, Gage unleashed an old-fashioned right hook with
a closed fist, connecting with the left side of Jean’s long jaw, sending the
cigarette helicoptering to the floor in a hail of sparks.
 
The punch was true and, as Jean’s central
nervous system performed as it was designed, spiking momentarily, Jean’s knees
buckled, sending him to the floor as his lungs expelled the smoke.
 
Gage snatched a spade from the wall, flipping
it upside down and swinging the wooden handle into the back of Jean’s head with
a solid thud.

He retrieved a rag
from a workbench, spraying it with WD-40.
 
With the rag, he wiped the handle of the spade and replaced it.
 
Then he checked Jean’s pulse; it was strong as
the Frenchman returned to a twilight state, moaning softly.
 
He’d be fully awake again soon.

Gage took the
pistol and rifled Jean’s pockets, taking a cell phone, Jean’s wallet, all loose
change, and even his lighter and cigarettes.
 
Finally he took Jean’s keys, stepping from the shed and tossing them
onto the roof of the adjacent two-story building.

“That’ll keep you
busy for a little while,” Gage said, as he slid the sunglasses back on.
 
The outside of the room had a hasp and a
hanging padlock.
 
Gage shut it, clicking
the padlock and wiping it with the rag.

As he jogged back
to the car, Gage tossed Jean’s belongings into the back of a moving garbage
truck, keeping only his revolver.
 
Jean’s
knowledge of his past was stunning, making Gage’s mind race through his
options.
 
The situation was far worse
than he could have imagined.

 
***

Just as Gage had
been listening to Jean’s gratuitous description of the Glaives’ emasculation
methods, Monika fidgeted in the car, smoking a cigarette and enjoying the cold breeze
from the car’s open window.
 
Her mind
raced over all that had happened in the previous three days.
 
The high of making love to the man she had
loved for quite some time was shattered by the low of the violent incident in
Metz—and the horrific death of her cousin.
 
When they were just kids, she and Michel had played for hours on end at
the family Christmas gatherings.
 
He was
six years her senior and, when she was a teenager, he confided in her that he
was gay.
 
And while they had not been
close for several years, mainly due to his move to France, she grieved for him
and could not completely believe that he had been in bed with criminals.
  

She pulled her
hair back in a taut ponytail, staring at her cell phone.
 
The girls at work would be going crazy to
find her, and nothing will kill a good clientele faster than an undependable
stylist.
 
As she pitched the cigarette
out the window, she thumbed her cell phone on for just one quick call.
 
She shook her head, ashamed.
 
But it
was only one call.
 
How could that hurt
anything?
 
After the signal came
back, she pressed the two button on her speed dial, rubbing the gathered tears
from her eyes as the phone rang.