The Diaries - 01 (28 page)

“Hello?” came the
voice on the other end of the line.

“Nicole, it’s Monika.”

“
Where
have you been?” Nicole hissed.
 
She was co-owner of the salon and worked at
the front, greeting people and making appointments.
 
“Your customers have been calling and showing
up.
 
We tried notifying everyone in the
book but some haven’t gotten the message.
 
And your damned phone has been turned off.
 
Silvie
even went to
your flat looking for you.”

Monika couldn’t
hide the fact she had been crying.
 
“I’m
sorry, Nicole, really I am.
 
Something completely
unexpected came up—an emergency—and I have been out of phone coverage.”

“Are you okay?” Nicole
asked, her anger turning to concern after hearing her friend’s tone.

“I am okay, Nicole.
 
And I hope to be back tomorrow, or maybe
Friday.
 
Please cover for me and, if you
have gaps in your schedule, can you please take my appointments?”

Finished with her
arrangements, Monika saw Gage running from across the road.
 
She quickly said goodbye to Nicole, promising
to check back in later.
 
Frantically,
Monika waved the remains of the smoky air from the car.
 
That done, she clicked the phone shut and dropped
it into her purse.
 
Gage’s face was
flushed and he nearly dove into the car before cranking the engine.
 
Without preamble, he spun the tires and
motored down the street, away from his neighborhood.

As they drove into
the center of Frankfurt, each with their mind firmly ensconced in a set of
major, yet different, problems, Monika’s mobile phone exchanged steady signals
to each of the cellular towers they passed.
 
When the phone informed a new tower it was within range, the previous tower
would hand off the signal, as happened millions of times each day all around
the world.
 
The signals, when triangulated
properly, could reveal the mobile phone’s position to an accuracy of five
meters.

But only if
someone was tracking them.

Chapter 8

Paris, France

The
café was Nicky’s favorite in
all of Paris.
 
Located just off the Rue de
Rivoli
, the family of owners loathed him, though they
certainly weren’t brave enough to show it.
 
They hid their distaste well, fawning over him and his guests every time
he entered in the late afternoon for his lengthy visit.
 
The interior of the café was marked by heavy
timbers and blood red accents.
 
Intimate
and situated partially underground, high windows displayed lower legs and
swinging shopping bags as people bustled on the sidewalk of the crowded
Parisian thoroughfare.
 
A fire burned in
the fireplace, wafting wisps of bluish smoke around the darkened restaurant as
jazz played lightly from the piped-in stereo.

In front of Nicky
was a bottle of red wine, barely touched.
 
He was too angry to eat, swirling his glass as he awaited word from
someone.
 
Marcel sat across from him,
eating sole and drenching his bread in the delicious white wine sauce as if
nothing were the matter.

“How can you be so
hungry?” Nicky asked with a sneer.

Marcel froze in
mid-bite.
 
He knew Nicky well enough to
know this particular challenging tone.
 
Swallowing slowly, Marcel took a sip of water and pushed the plate
aside.
 
“You’re right, Nicky.
 
I’m not hungry.”

“And why have we not heard anything yet?”
Nicky screamed at full-volume, standing and throwing his cellular phone across
the room.
 
It missed the smoky fire,
exploding into pieces on the enormous stone hearth.
 
The patrons turned, their eyes wide at the
outburst.
 
The two goons standing behind
Nicky’s table locked eyes with the diners; each person turned their attention
back to their plates, speaking in the quietest of tones about anything but the
savage little man sitting by the back wall.

Marcel made a call
and spoke briefly and quietly into his own phone, his face pained as he listened.
 
Finally, after appearing hopeful at the end
of the call he hung up and looked at Nicky.
 
“Nothing from Jean, but
Günther
, the other
asset in Germany, may be on to something.
 
He said he’ll call back as soon as he is sure.”

The tablecloth
pulled taut as Nicky clenched it, balling his fists in anger.
 
Marcel watched him carefully, knowing that
something was bound to give sooner or later.
 
Nicky Arnaud wasn’t the type of man who could release anger unaided.
 
Like a well-sealed boiler that has built up
too much pressure, Nicky needed a violent or physical release for his anger…

“Who is she?” Nicky
asked, his stubby finger pointing to someone behind Marcel’s left shoulder.
 

Marcel turned and
looked at the two employees standing near the water stand at the front of the
restaurant.
 
An older lady who had worked
there as long as he could remember; standing next to her, a young woman that
might have been pushing twenty. She appeared to be at least half African, her
hair pulled back in a tight bun, showcasing a face and neck of smooth, light-brown
skin.
 
Marcel guessed her to be one of
France’s millions of guest workers, probably quite poor and unable to speak the
language very well.
 
The two women
weren’t even waitresses, just helpers who filled empty water glasses and
occasionally scraped breadcrumbs from the white linen tablecloths.
 
They were talking to one another in hushed
tones, no doubt about Nicky and his outburst.

“Never seen her,”
Marcel said, turning back, hoping Nicky would drop it.

“I want her.”

“Which one?”
Marcel asked, pressing his luck while catching a whiff of the delicious fish he
was so rudely prevented from finishing.

“Don’t be a
wise-ass,” Nicky said.
 
“Go get her for
me.”

Marcel closed his
eyes, wishing he were elsewhere, like New Zealand, perhaps, on a mountaintop,
alone, forever.
 
“I’ll get her when we
leave.”

“Not later.
 
Are you fucking deaf?
 
I want her
right
now
.”
 
Nicky stood and dropped his
napkin on the table.
 
“I’ll be in the
men’s room.”
 
He disappeared around the
corner and down the narrow stairway that led further underground to the restrooms
carved into the limestone earth.

Marcel gulped
water before clenching his eyes shut and rubbing his temples.
 
He wondered what made Nicky the way he was,
remembering that he, long ago, decided that it had to have been a significant
case of child abuse.
 
He took two large
bites of the fish, washing it down with white wine before standing and crossing
the floor as he buttoned the jacket of his coat.
 
With a wave of his hand, he signaled the
older busgirl to take a hike.
 

Marcel cleared his
throat, offering the other one a tight smile.
 
Then, leaning close to her ear and whispering, he saw the young girl’s
eyes go wide at his proposition.
 
She
shook her head, looking at him with doe-like eyes full of fear and disgust.

He straightened,
stepping back with his hands folded in front of him.
 
His eyes closed as he nodded.

The girl’s hand
went to her neck, rubbing it as she glanced about nervously.
 
Marcel reached into his pocket and pressed a
wad of money into her hand, whispering to her as he leaned in again. “I’d
suggest, in the strongest terms, that you get down there and do what he
wants.
 
Go now and he’ll probably be
gentle.”

Her French was
better than he thought, and he could smell her sweet breath coming in huffs
while panic began to set in.
 
She pulled
away again, shaking her head back and forth in short, quick motions.
 
“No, I can’t,” she said softly, with little
conviction in her voice, her eyes cutting down to the roll of euros balled in
her hand.

Marcel raised his
eyebrows, turning to the older lady who was watching the exchange from a short
distance by the bar.
 
The girl followed
his gaze, turning her large eyes to the older worker.
 
Marcel watched the woman’s wizened face.
 
She was old and homely but smart enough to
know, even from a distance, what was happening.
 
Her beady brown eyes were moist as she nodded
once to the young girl.

The girl swallowed
thickly, surveying the room to see if anyone had noticed.
 
While some of the more observant patrons had
been carefully watching the delicate exchange, they were smart enough to
pretend they weren’t.
 
After a few deep
breaths, the young woman reached under her apron, stuffing the money into her pocket
before crossing the room and unhurriedly heading down the stairs.

Marcel sat back
down, embarrassed over what had just occurred.
 
At least he could now have a few moments of peace.
 
Taking advantage of it, he began cramming the
rest of the now cold fish into his mouth, taking great gulps of water and wine.

There had been a
time when Marcel would have turned more of a blind eye to Nicky’s actions.
 
Especially back when he was still climbing
the organizational ladder.
 
In the
Glaives, one need not abhor violence if one hoped to attain status.
 
And while Marcel used the sword sparingly and
justly, seeing Nicky out of control had long ago begun to wear on him.
 
Marcel grew up with a mother and father.
 
Poverty-stricken, their marriage shaken by
his mother’s alcoholism, his parents had at least done a fair job of teaching
him right from wrong.
 
It wasn’t long
after he turned twenty that the neighborhood Glaives recruited him, and because
of his intelligence and calm demeanor, Marcel moved parallel with Nicky,
climbing the levels of the organization quickly.
 

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.