The Diaries - 01 (34 page)

She didn’t turn at
the boy’s room, instead passing by again and going to the master bedroom.
 
Gage closed his eyes as he listened.
 
Surely she would smell his dirty scent, and
the shaving cream.
 
He was relieved to
hear the familiar sounds of a person urinating and, with his bundle in his
hand, Gage hustled back to his hiding place behind the couch, grabbing his apples
and packet of food and rushing out the front door.
 
He crossed the lawn, stomach in his throat
and every pounding beat of his heart in his eardrums.

As he walked down
the street, with every step of his aching feet he awaited a yell or perhaps a
siren.
 
He reached the end of the block,
turning back toward the river.
 
He
chanced a look back at the house.
 
The
woman was nowhere to be seen.
 
Once he
was out of sight, he stopped, leaning forward, hands on his knees.
 
He took great breaths, afterward cinching his
sunglasses tightly against his eyes.

Better to be lucky
than good.

Gage avoided the
center of town, veering left and skirting to the edge of the hamlet with his
head down, looking like any old factory worker in the black beer maker’s
jacket.
 
The last building Gage passed
sold farmer’s supplies and implements.
 
Pretending to window shop, Gage instead viewed his reflection in the
window.
 
To the close observer, the white
shade of his scalp, and the two shaving nicks, would reveal his head and face as
freshly shaved.
 
But to anyone searching
for the person in the three-year old picture the news was displaying, he now
looked markedly different.

Gage walked south
through a field, resuming his navigation of the path on the river.
 
He devoured the food from the packet followed
by the apples, core and all.
 
He hoped
the woman would find no evidence that he had been in her home.
 
The money he had left made him feel slightly
better about what he had done.

His step a tad
lighter, his stomach full, Gage picked up the pace.

 
 
***

Château-Thierry, France

Three hundred
miles to the southwest, an early-morning frost had firmly settled on the grass
and ornamentals around Nicky Arnaud’s gray stone mansion.
 
The pond to the rear of the house shimmered,
sending fog trickling onto the driveway as the cold air attempted to cool the
water.
 
The mist was briefly punctured by
a shiny black BMW sedan; it came to a halt at the base of the stairway.
 
Marcel Cherbourg stepped out of the car,
popping his cuffs, staring at the mansion with dread.
 
He had no desire to go inside and face Nicky
Arnaud.

Unfortunately
there was no other choice.

He placed the
package on the roof of the car and lit a cigarette, staring at his right
hand.
 
The knuckles were red and raw,
used only a half hour before to belt Luc and Bruno Florence for their blatant disobedience.
 
Marcel had watched the news earlier, seeing
the picture of the pretty girl from
Saarbrücken
.
 
The two bastards had killed her, making up a
bullshit story that she had shot at them.
 

Straying from his
explicit orders, the two men had shirked their duties and, instead of reporting
in, they had sped away from Frankfurt and gone straight to a whorehouse.
 
Two bottles of liquor later, at sunup, they
finally crossed the French border and made their way to Marcel’s home, where he
had waited up all night, awaiting their call.
  
The men had cried in their drunkenness as
Marcel beat them.

His job had turned
to madness.

Something would
have to give soon—that much Marcel knew.
 

He was surprised
they had been smart enough to retrieve the book, a diary from 1938.
 
Even if it did have value, Bruno and Luc were
probably too stupid to know where to sell it, much less read it.

Taking his time as
he stepped toward the house, Marcel wondered how Nicky would take the bad
news.
 
It would be one of three ways:
calmly, with blustering rage, or violently.
 
There was never any way to predict.
 
Marcel had seen Nicky turn violent over the trivial, and take dreadful news
with peace and serenity.
 
What awaited
him today?

The front door
opened as
Walid
, Nicky’s servant, awaited his
arrival.
 
Napoleon, Nicky’s Doberman—who
he sometimes called “
Napi
”—emerged from the door as
if launched from a catapult.
 
The dog was
the only consistent highlight of coming to Nicky’s mansion, and he matched
Marcel’s height as he stood on his hind legs, his front paws over Marcel’s
shoulders, licking him like a long-lost love.
 
Marcel enjoyed the moment, rubbing Napoleon’s neck and rippling flanks
before making him heel.
 
He looked to
Walid
.

“Monsieur Arnaud
is still in bed,”
Walid
said to Marcel, using a grave
tone, eyes cast downward.

Marcel arched an
eyebrow.
 
“Anyone in there with him?”

“No, sir, not that
I know of.”

With Napoleon by
his side, Marcel entered the mansion.
 
The diary, wrapped in a paper sack, was placed in a drawer before Marcel
ascended the curved stairwell.
 
He
stopped and turned, instructing Napoleon to stay.
 
It pissed Nicky off that his dog loved Marcel
more than him and Marcel didn’t feel like hearing about it.
 

In the upstairs
hallway, he finished his cigarette and removed two waters from the small bar in
the nook of the landing.
 
Marcel could
see no reason to even mention the diary to Nicky yet.
 
He wanted a chance to read its contents
first.
 
The Frenchman stood alone for a
moment, resting one of the cold bottles on his knuckles, bolstering himself for
the coming confrontation.
 
Finally he walked
down the long hallway to Nicky’s door and knocked lightly, using his left hand.
 
There was no response, so he rapped loudly, shouting
Nicky’s name.

“What?” came a
weak voice.

“It’s Marcel.”

A groan.

Marcel stepped
into the room and was immediately overtaken by the smell.
 
He looked to the bed and there was Nicky, lying
crosswise on the mattress.
 
The heavy, baroque-style
comforter was pulled over his head.
 
Sticking
out was his stubby left leg, streaked with something.

“Nicky, we need to
talk,” Marcel said, his lip curled.

“So talk,” came
the reply.
 
Nicky didn’t budge.

“Are you okay?”
Marcel asked, more curious than concerned.

“I have a very,
very bad hangover, Marcel.
 
Just tell me
and go.”

Marcel spun a
chair around and pulled it next to the bed.
 
The smell was overpowering, and Marcel immediately realized the
substance on Nicky’s leg was vomit.
 
He
pinched his nose shut.
 
“
Merde
!
 
What happened here?”

Nicky moaned.
 
“You just won’t let it go, will you?”
 
Marcel was silent.
 
“There were two insatiable women with me last
night.
 
Real women: beautiful and
willing.”

“Who?”

“After you left I
found them in a Marais bar looking for a sponsor.
 
I brought them here, we had too much to drink…among
other indulgences.”

“And where are
they now?”

“I had a car service
take them back when I got sick.”

Marcel stepped to
the window and opened it, allowing chilly wind to rush into the stinking room.
 
“Hangover or not, we need to talk.”

Nicky jerked the
covers from his face.
 
“Just tell me.
 
Shit, that’s cold!”

Marcel explained
what had happened in Frankfurt, removing the part about Luc and Bruno not bothering
to call in.
 
That little tidbit would
result in Nicky having the brothers killed, and at the moment, as much as he
personally wanted them dead, the manpower needs of the Glaives didn’t allow for
a reduction in force.
 
Nicky closed his
eyes as the news set in.

“Why am I just now
hearing this?” he asked, raising his hand to his forehead and rubbing it.

“Luc and Bruno managed
to get away unscathed, but it took some time for them to do so cleanly.
 
The Germans think the man we are pursuing,
Gage Hartline, is the man who killed her.
 
He is their only suspect.”

“Have they found
him?”

“Not yet, that I
know of.”

Nicky wiped his
nose before twisting to his bedside table.
 
He removed a tissue and blew his nose fiercely, moaning from the
pain.
 
Marcel walked across the room and
retrieved two
Vicodin
from a bottle.
 
He stepped to his boss, proffering the pills
and the bottled water.
 
Nicky gulped them
down and fell back into the pillow.
 
Finally he spoke, softly.

“You know, Jean
hasn’t told us everything about this American and these books he has that are
supposed to be so damned valuable.
 
I’m
guessing he’s trying to find him on his own so he can sell them for himself.”

Marcel shook his
head, wishing Nicky would drop it about the diaries.
 
“Jean’s a piece of shit,” he said flatly.

Nicky massaged his
temples.
 
“He’s DGSE and he’s
greedy.
 
What do you expect?”
 
As Nicky settled back into the bed, his voice
was a croak.
 
“Get him here,
today
.”

“But Nicky, he’s not
exactly in a position to do—”

Nicky raised his
right hand, pointing his pudgy finger at Marcel.
 
“Get Jean in here.”
 
He pulled the covers back over his head and
didn’t utter another sound.

Marcel glanced
around the room again, suppressing his hatred for his superior.
 
He lit another cigarette as he exited the
room, walking back down to the parlor and using a brand new prepaid cell
phone.
 
With Napoleon curled up on the
couch next to him, a paw resting on his thigh, Marcel called the second number
Jean had given him, this time simply hanging up.
 
It usually took the DGSE agent thirty minutes
to return a call, so Marcel eased himself back into the comfortable sofa,
smoking and waiting.
 
He petted the
snoozing dog, listening to the ticking of the clock.
 
Marcel was at peace, if only for a moment, staring
out the picture window at the sun rising, melting the frost and defeating the
shadows on the winter lawn.
 

Marcel Cherbourg
hated Nicky Arnaud.
 
He hated Luc and
Bruno.
 
He hated his profession.
 
His eyes wandered the sprawling home; it was
suitable for an architectural magazine, save for the gaudy accoutrements.
 
How many people had spilled blood to provide
Nicky Arnaud another gold vase?

As he meditated, Marcel
wished he had given Nicky three
Vicodin
rather than
two.

Better yet, the whole bottle
, he pleasantly
thought, drifting off to join Napoleon in a nap.

***

Nancy, France

Thursday was
alcohol-free for Damien Ellis—not normally a big drinker, he wanted a clear
head before he was due to tour a highly-recommended
Charmes
winery on Friday.
 
Now in the panoramic
city of Nancy, he’d spent the day exploring a thousand-year old monastery and getting
deep into the Stephen King novel in a charming café, sipping the best coffee he
had ever tasted.
 
After two hours
engrossed in the story, he laid the nearly finished book on the table and
checked his Timex; there was just enough time to catch
Sorgi
before the sergeant bolted home to his pretty wife and two little girls.

Leaving ten euro
on the table, Ellis stepped outside, letting the wind hit his face
full-on.
 
The cool, fresh air felt good after
the warm café and hot coffee.
 
The
sunshine was dim, filtered by hazy clouds to the west as the sun’s abbreviated,
late-year appearance neared its daily end, already diving toward the
horizon.
 
He walked in the direction of
his hotel as he dialed the office, asking for Sergeant Sorgi.

“Sorgi, here.”

“How’s it going,
young man?”

“Why the heck are
you calling me, sir?
 
You’re supposed to
be on vacation.”

“Am on
vacation.
 
Maybe I’m just calling you to
brag about it,” countered Ellis, his grin showing through the tone of his
voice.

“So brag then.”

“Seriously, Jim.
 
What’s going on? Anything fun?”