The Diaries - 01 (3 page)

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 certainly 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.”