Authors: Chuck Driskell
“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.
“Quiet, Pierre,
quiet.
Yes, you now have the scars from
the burns, but you shall live.
They’ll
be your brands of atonement for your misdeeds.
A few weeks in the hospital coated in Vaseline and, other than the
scars, you’ll be good as new.”
Pierre’s eyes were
wide, unbelieving.
His screams ceased.
“So tell us,
Pierre.
Now that you have paid your
thieving debt, tell us where the money is.
Tell us how to get it.”
Through all his
pain, Pierre maintained his wits.
His
eyes were narrowed.
“I don’t believe
you,” he croaked.
Leon took a step
toward Pierre, glowering.
Nicky waved
him off.
“You tell me right now,” Nicky said
reasonably, “where every single euro, dollar, kroner, and pound is hidden, and
I will see to it that you are hurt no more.”
Pierre
swallowed.
“Before I left, when you and
I were young, you were always crazy, Nicky.
Seeing you acting this way…being reasonable…it doesn’t compute.”
Nicky looked at
his partners and chuckled.
“I couldn’t
have ascended to the top if I didn’t know how to temper my feelings
occasionally, especially when thirty million is being bandied about.”
His placid face hardened.
“But if you don’t start talking right now,
I’m going to kill you myself and find the money the hard way.”
It took five
minutes of explanation.
Marcel smoked
and listened, remaining on the stool.
When Pierre was done explaining, Nicky looked over at Marcel.
Yes, Nicky
, Marcel said with his
eyes.
He just told you the truth
.
Nicky turned back
to Pierre, patting the man’s cheek affectionately.
He nodded to Bruno and Leon; they clamped
their hands over his thin arms, wrenching them to his side.
Nicky pulled the longest Sabatier knife from
the cutting block island on the far side of the kitchen.
He walked back to Pierre, twisting the knife
in the sparse light.
“Pierre, did you
actually, honestly, truly think I would let you live?”
Pierre screamed
again, a deep, agonizing scream as Nicky placed the tip of the long knife on his
navel.
Nicky waited for the screaming to
cease, then pushed the long blade in so slowly that the sound of flesh and
organs ripping were audible to everyone present.
After the knife reached its hilt, Nicky
pulled it out quickly, watching as volumes of blood spilled from the man as if
a faucet had been turned on.
“You can let him
go now,” Nicky said dismissively.
“Show’s
over.”
Mercifully
unconscious again, Pierre slumped and fell lifelessly to the floor.
Nicky eyed Marcel
as he stepped to the pantry, opening the door as he might open a present on
Christmas morning.
He murmured a few
consoling words as he stepped inside.
Marcel closed his eyes when he heard the scream; he massaged his temples
when he heard the slap.
Ten minutes later,
as Nicky was finishing his vile act with Pierre’s wife, Marcel smoked in the
kitchen, trying to block out the sounds.
Pierre’s body lay between the island and the long counter, a crimson
pool of sticky blood surrounding his battered, charred body.
Marcel’s eyes went from Pierre to the profile
of Bruno standing in the entryway.
He
was rubbing himself through his pants, turned on by the atrocity taking place
in the next room.
Leon was out of sight,
probably next to his cousin, getting a front row view.
Nicky Arnaud, the
high boss of
Les Glaives du
Peuple
, was out of control.
He’d always been foolish, but his instability
had grown with his power, tilting to insanity when he had ascended to the
throne three years earlier.
Marcel
Cherbourg was no saint, but there was a way to do things without the collateral
damage Nicky Arnaud always seemed to create.
A way to do things that ensured a future without rivals.
A way to do things while maintaining an air
of sanity.
But Marcel was
also a pragmatist.
He stepped out to
the rear porch for some air.
There would
come a time when he might be able to do something, but tonight was not the
night.
There came another
scream as Nicky invited his cousin to join in the fun.
“Bastards,” Marcel
whispered to the night, pulling the door shut in his search for peace.
***
Saturday, October 31 – Frankfurt,
Germany
The
Bischen
was a small restaurant specializing in freshly-baked
bread and strong, dark coffee in the German style.
Gage was there early, picking his way through a
hunk of spiced bread, scanning the headlines of the
Allgemeine
.
He’d had his standard two cups of coffee and
switched to tap water to keep his nerves in check.
Fashionably late and typically French, Jean
Jenois
breezed in twenty minutes after their scheduled meeting
time, his flowing black hair still damp from his morning shower.
He was well turned out in a thin-cut charcoal
suit, wide-open collar, and black alligator shoes.
Gage knew who Jean worked for, but always
wondered where he acquired his real money.
He certainly didn’t get it in the employ of the
Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure,
or
DGSE, as it is known worldwide.
“Herr Hartline, so
good to see you,” Jean said, using nearly unaccented German and wearing a look
of amusement that always annoyed Gage to no end.
Without being overt, it was as if Jean took perverse
delight in Gage’s struggles.
But the
only way he would have known about them is if he had looked into Gage’s
personal affairs, something he could easily do if he wanted.
Or maybe Gage was simply being paranoid.
Gage nodded to
Jean, motioning to the waitress.
“Coffee with heavy
milk,” Jean said dismissively.
“We’ll be
outside.”
The waitress
sauntered away as Jean led Gage to a table on the sunny sidewalk.
“Let’s enjoy the sun while we can, yes?”
Jean’s voice was baritone and silky
smooth.
He lit a cigarette, humming to
himself as he briefly looked away, a smile appearing as if a delicious memory
had flitted through his mind.
After a
moment he focused on his occasional contractor.
“Gage, my old friend…you look like shit.”
Gage slipped on
his sunglasses, feeling a twinge of pain behind his eyes.
He rubbed his blond stubble which had
recently become flecked with a few burgeoning gray whiskers.
“This is what not sleeping does to you.”
Jean pushed the
cigarettes across the table.
He placed
the Zippo on top.
“
Soins
pour
une
cigarette?”
“No thanks,” Gage
said, understanding enough of the French and frowning at the temptation.
“How long has it
been?” Jean asked.
“Not long
enough.”
Gage had kicked cigarettes and
alcohol nearly three years before, shortly after the incident at Crete.
The debilitating, migraine-like headaches had
thankfully abated somewhat after the excising of his bad habits.
They still occurred, but not nearly as often.
Jean pulled the
cigarettes back, spinning them on the table.
“So, I hear our friends at the meeting down in Vienna passed on giving you
the insertion job.”
This surprised
Gage but, knowing Jean might be shaking the bushes, he remained impassive.
“You didn’t think
I would know that?”
Gage shrugged.
Jean waved his
hand as if he were shooing a fly.
“I
know you cannot respond.
Typical Slavs.
I don’t think they ever intended to even do what
they discussed with you.
They’re just updating
their files, keeping a list of who to call when they really do need someone.
They’re nearly as blunt as a German trying to
give advice.
People like you come and go
so damned much that even the world’s best intelligence agencies can’t keep
up.
They paid you to come, I hope.”
Still, Gage just
stared at Jean.
A smirk grew on
Jean’s face.
“You know Renaldo Tristan?
From Paris?
Weapons man, tall with the
cauliflowered
ear…the
one who got kicked out of GIGN for—”
“I know who he is,”
Gage said, cutting him off, having heard about the former French special ops
man’s exploits ad nauseam.
Jean dragged on
his cigarette extravagantly, clearly enjoying the moment.
He spoke as the smoke spilled from his mouth.
“Renaldo asked for five-k, euro, for the day
trip.
They paid him, no questions.”
Gage pulled in a
long breath through his nose, angered at himself for not asking the same.
He wasn’t the type to fret over something
that was past, willing himself to allow it to burn into his brain so as not to
make the same mistake again.
Using all
his discipline, he forced his face to show no reaction other than irritation at
this delay.
“So what did you want to
talk to me about?
Maybe I should have
charged
you
for this meet?”
Jean laughed, motioning
to Gage’s empty glass of water.
“I will
pay for your water, yes?”
The waitress
placed Jean’s coffee before him, nodding when he informed her there would be
nothing else.
They both watched her walk
away.
“You are aware of
the many U.S. military that are leaving Germany?
They call it ‘drawdown’.”
Gage nodded.
“Not a part of our mission anymore.”
“I guess you will
take your imperialism to the Middle East now,
oui
?”
A fake smile with
his mouth only was Gage’s reply.
“Anyway, there is
one area we are particularly interested in, around the
Westend
quarter here in Frankfurt.
The government
is moving many of their organizations into these newly vacant buildings, since
they are already well suited for bureaucratic service.”
Jean paused, waiting for a response.
“Okay,” Gage said,
wanting him to get on with it.
If he had
any beef with the French, it was their slow pace.