To The Lions - 02 (27 page)

“I
found your friend.
 
Respectfully, I’d
like the Gibraltan bank account number before giving the address.”
 
After a moment of listening he removed the
address from his pocket and scribbled the bank account number.
 
“Just a moment, please.”
 
The general removed another sheet he’d
prepared, showing the sequence of numbers in Gibraltar banks.
 
The number he’d been given appeared to be
genuine.
 

“Thank
you.
 
The address you’re seeking is in
the enclave of Cadaques.
 
The address is
number one, S’Aranella.”

After
confirming the address, the man on the other end of the line hung up the phone.

Yelding,
unable to restrain the mirth from spreading over him, placed his phone on the
ground, smashing it under his heel.
 
He
ground his foot back and forth, pulverizing the mobile device.
 
Once he’d discarded the pieces, he stepped
back into the dining facility, resuming his late lunch.
 
He didn’t feel one bit of remorse—criminals
killing criminals makes the world a better place.

The
bland meal tasted exquisite, especially now that he was a quarter-of-a-million
dollars richer.

Chapter Seventeen

Cadaques,
Spain

Ernesto
Navarro had removed the battery from his satellite phone, eyeing the two parts
with a cocked eyebrow.
 
He was at his
villa on the northern shore of Cadaques, the seaside enclave famous for
inspiring artists like Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso.
 
Tapping out his last Dunhill, Navarro
crumpled the pack, leaning back on the white leather sofa and pondering what
he’d heard on the phone.
 
Was it
possible, Cesar in bed with Los Leones?
 

Don’t be his papa right now, be the
cold and calculating man who once ruled the north of Spain with an iron fist.
 
The man with fifty million euro spread throughout
the world’s banking havens.
 
The man who
once took down the world’s most powerful mobster with only three men, two
shotguns and a pair of osmium balls.

Closing
his eyes, Navarro reasoned it out.
 
Cesar
had always been his own man, unwilling to stand in his father’s shadow,
returning any act of paternal kindness with a bite of Navarro’s hand.
 
Even as a small boy, back when Navarro’s wife
had been alive, Cesar would become angry at something trivial and smash his
favorite toy as revenge.

But…

Cesar as a León?
 
Yes, it’s theoretically possible
.
 
Opening his eyes, Navarro whispered, “Quite
possible,” feeling as if he’d just ingested a cup of vinegar.
 

But
this American…Hartline.
 
What was he up
to?
 
Though vouched for as a man who
lived life simply and well within his own means, he’d certainly turned at the
prospect of Navarro’s significant offer.
 
And why wouldn’t he do it again, especially when Los Leones could easily
portray Navarro as just another mobster?
 
They could tie hundreds of murders back to him so that a soldier-like mercenary
such as Hartline would have no compunction over flipping from one thug to
another.

Unsure
of exactly who to trust, Navarro was still somewhat unfazed over the warnings
from the American.
 
The phone call had
startled him at first, but he relaxed as he thought back through his scrupulous
preparations.
 
He’d been assured by a top
scientist with Spain’s
Instituto Nacional
de Técnica Aeroespacial
, a man who regularly helped Los Soldados with
surveillance, that a satellite phone was untraceable except at the very highest
levels of government and military.
 
While
Navarro had grudging respect for Xavier Zambrano’s skills, Navarro still felt
that he and his top Leones were nothing more than a collection of thick-skulled
thugs.
 
It would be one thing to track a
cellular signal—any iniquitous idiot at a wireless provider could provide such
a service.
 
But it would be an entirely
different process to crack into a satellite’s feed.
 
It would take the government’s help and, for
more than three decades, Navarro had owned all corners of the executive government.
 
If Zambrano had made inroads, Navarro would
have already learned about it.

Now,
on to another question.

Should
he pull Hartline from Berga?
 
It might
help determine if he’d flipped.
 
And, if
he had, he’d have to be eliminated.
 
That
would leave Navarro in a precarious position with his American allies.

“
Merda
,” Navarro mumbled.
 
He thumbed the handheld radio.
 
“Valentin.”

“Yes,
señor?”

“I
spoke with Hartline at Berga.
 
He was
concerned about my satellite phone being tracked.
 
Does that concern you?”

“No,
señor.
 
We were given assurances that
such a task is impossible.
 
Also, if
you’ll recall, this American is overly cautious.
 
Too cautious, in my opinion.”

“You
have no concerns?”

“
Cero
.”

“Do
you see anything unusual outside?”

“Nothing,
señor.
 
I’m viewing all the monitors
now.
 
What did Hartline tell you about
Cesar?”

“I’ll
tell you later.
 
I want some time to
think.”
 

Navarro
put the radio down and dropped the crumpled cigarette pack on the coffee
table.
 
He then lit his cigarette.
 
The Mediterranean waves could be heard
outside, the warm sea breeze pushing the filmy fabric in through the open
French doors.
 
Hoping the fresh air might
clear his head, he walked outside, sliding off his Gucci loafers and standing
barefoot on the white wood of his porch.
 
Navarro’s two wolf shepherds padded out with him.
 
Having been run earlier, they quickly settled
in on the deck and resumed their slumber.

This
was his primary residence in the summer, not the safe-house twenty kilometers
to the south where he’d met with Gage Hartline.
 
No one knew he was here, although the very thought of being found sent a
spike of fear through the elder Navarro.

Deep breaths.

He
thought about Valentin’s counsel, and the advice of his own primary
attorney.
 
They both urged him to pick up
and go.
 
To announce himself as fully
retired, to give up his interests and move to Monaco or Montenegro or Cyprus
where he could finish out his final ten or twenty years in the sun and
casinos.
 
There he could eat good food,
enjoy the ministrations of skinny women, and utilize the world’s best medicine
to remain above ground for as long as possible.

“How
much money do you need?” Valentin had urged on the chilly night after the
Hartline meeting, once Hartline and the smarmy acusador, Redon, had taken their
leave.
 
“If you leave now, even that
maniac who runs Los Leones will gladly trade Cesar’s life for the control of
your interests.
 
He’ll leave him unharmed
and send you on with his blessings.”

The
fire had danced before Navarro, the seasoned alder cracking and popping.

“Why
won’t you do it, señor?” Valentin had pleaded.

Navarro
had finally turned to him and said, “I will
never
run away.”
 
Then he’d stared until Valentin
dropped his eyes.

Since
then, there’d been no more talk about retirement.

Ever
since Francesca’s death almost a decade before, when Navarro had begun pulling
back in the Spanish underworld, the rival organizations began pecking away at
the void like pigeons pushing into a seed pile.
 
At first it had seemed that Lima’s group from the south might emerge,
before the fateful explosion on that yacht at the Port of Santa Maria.
 
Then it had been the originators of the Santa
Marian fireball, the Italians, but their reign had only lasted a cup of coffee
before they were sent away in a Neapolitan cargo ship loaded with body bags.
 
When Los Leones had followed the flood of
Italian blood, bringing with them the brutality they’d dominated the prisons
with since the mid-century, Navarro had known his time was coming to an end.
 
And he’d stepped aside gracefully.

In
most
areas.

For
five full years he’d negotiated with Los Leones’ leader at the time, Severo
Santana, “Sevi the Knife,” his moniker depicted by the twin daggers on the
backs of his hands.
 
Navarro had only
angled to keep a few of Los Soldados’ best moneymakers.
 
For a hardened criminal, Sevi had been a
decent man.
 
While he was a ruthless
negotiator, he was at least practical, until that day five years ago when he’d
been disemboweled by his top lieutenant.
 
The lieutenant, Xavier Zambrano, a lean, chisel-faced ball of contempt,
had arrogated the mantle and never looked back.
 
He’d ceased all discussions with Navarro, sending word of a one-week
truce before he declared war on Navarro’s entire operation.

That
had been five years ago.

As
the salty breeze pressed in, Navarro pulled one last drag from his Dunhill,
pressing it into the planter at the corner of the patio.
 
The sun was now behind his enclave,
descending, adding comfortable, eastward shadows to the patio.
 
Pressing his thumb and forefinger to his
closed eyes, he recalled his initial indignation at the threats from the
largely unknown León, Xavier, who’d spent the majority of his adult life in
prison.
 
For three days Navarro had sat
awake, smoking and thinking, watching the sun and the moon travel across the sky,
waiting as rival factions warred in his own mind.
 
At the end of his patient cogitation, Navarro
had summoned Valentin telling him what to yield and what to protect.

Now,
rather than live under the shroud of a large guard force, Navarro had chosen to
live independently, in anonymity.
 
He
prepared his own meals, or sent Valentin to retrieve them.
 
When he desired entertainment, like the young
woman who currently lay nude in his bed, Valentin delivered it in the blind
rear of the Mercedes.

No
one outside of his tight inner-circle knew exactly where Navarro’s three retreats
were.
 
Sure, there were rumors.
 
People had seen him in places like
Cadaques.
 
But he only went there, or to
a place like Tossa de Mar where he’d met Gage Hartline, under the watchful eyes
of multiple guards.

He
lived a very private, secure life.

Before
Navarro told his dogs to stay and stepped back inside, he glanced southward
down the beach, staring at the ribbon of sand and red rock that disappeared
into the belly of Spain.
 
The thought of
the initial meeting with Hartline made him go back to what Hartline had said on
the phone, about someone tracing his call.
 
If that were true, Navarro thought with a measure of satisfaction, he
could just imagine Xavier’s anger when he was told that, for whatever reason,
the phone on the other end of the line wasn’t a regular cellular phone, it was
a satellite phone and untraceable to a specific location.

But
Navarro’s good humor slid away from him, bringing back the vinegary taste as he
remembered what Hartline had said about Cesar.
 
Why would Hartline lie?
 
Unless
the Leones had somehow turned him, he wouldn’t.
 
And Cesar…he was just stupid enough to be taken in by Los Leones, who
probably promised him all manner of shiny objects in return for his papa’s
head.
 
Cesar was certainly gullible enough
to believe them.

As
he crossed the bright white sitting room, an encouraging thought struck Navarro.
 
This situation, as bizarre as it was, might
work to everyone’s favor.
 
Cesar knew
nothing.
 
Since he and Navarro had become
estranged, which was before Xavier took over Los Leones, everything had
changed.
 
Navarro’s three retreats had
all been purchased through an untraceable shell company.
 
Cesar had no knowledge of anything other than
Navarro’s previously jettisoned narcotics operation so, as long as Los Leones
felt he was worth keeping around, even if Hartline decided to pull out, Cesar
might be kept alive for the balance of his sentence.

That
meant Navarro had twenty months to try to figure out some way to bring his son
out alive.
 
And twenty months was a long
time.
 
In that time, rather than try and
protect Cesar with commandos like the American, perhaps Navarro would usher in a
capable rival gang, teaching them of the macho Leones’ many weak points.
 

Yes,
Navarro thought, his hand on the door of the bedroom, a flush spreading over
his florid face.
 
It will be much better
to have a predictable enemy than a band of dishonorable convicts like Los
Leones.

It’s a very good plan
.

And
now he would celebrate by letting the leggy young visitor bring him off before
he ordered his evening meal.
 
Reaching
into his pocket, Navarro removed an erectile pill, biting down on it and letting
it dissolve on his tongue so that it would work quickly.

The
miracle of modern medicine.

He
stepped into his bedroom.

* * *

“You’ve
got a visitor,” the guard said to Gage.
 
Gage had just come back inside from the yard, and still had the phone in
his pocket.

“A
visitor?”
 
Gage’s right hand hung
naturally, concealing the slight bulge from the phone.