To The Lions - 02 (8 page)

“This
is my real voice, not that regrettable voice you heard on the phone,” Navarro
said.
 
“I was speaking to you through a
ridiculous device.”
 
He ruefully shook
his head.
 
“My enemies are so desperate
to kill me that they have compromised the phone companies.”

“They
sound advanced.”

“They’re
savages.”

Navarro
lifted his cigarette from the notched ashtray, dragging on it as he looked past
Gage.
 
Studying the man, Gage was almost
certain he saw genuine sadness in the man’s eyes.
 
A long silence ensued.

“Señor
Navarro,” Gage eventually said, “typically when a man like you summons someone
like me, and pays a travel retainer in the amount you paid, they get right down
to the request.”

The
Spaniard pulled in a long breath, flaring his nostrils.
 
“When I began to make inquiries for a man
with your skills, I initially learned about you from the Glaives.”

Now
it was Gage’s turn to take in a sharp breath.
 
He’d been promised that all animosity between him and the Glaives had
been quashed.
 
And, while Navarro seemed
genuine, it unnerved Gage somewhat that the Glaives still had him on their
minds.

“Please
don’t concern yourself,” Navarro said, reading Gage’s expression.
 
“The man I spoke to is a friend.
 
He said he knew you…said you made peace.”

Gage
nodded, realizing Navarro was speaking of Marcel Cherbourg.

“How
is he?” Gage asked.

“He’s
drastically reduced the Glaives’ size and, with it, their exposure.”

“Despite
his choice of vocation, he seemed level-headed.”

Navarro
took the slight insult with no reaction.
 
“I could have offered this job to any number of qualified men,” the
older man said distantly, speaking downward as if there were a person under the
table.
 
“I chose you because, in all my
inquiries, you were rumored to possess a degree of compassion.”

“The
others didn’t?”

“Mercenaries,
the whole lot of them.
 
Only in your game
for themselves.”

“What
is the job, Señor Navarro?”

“It
involves my son—he’s in grave danger.”
 
Navarro crushed out the cigarette and straightened in his chair.
 
He smoothed the brim of the fedora before
lowering it to the empty chair to his left.
 
“He’s in a situation that may soon cost him his life.”

“What
situation?”

“I’ve
done everything in my power to protect him.
 
But, here in Spain, even someone like me is limited in the resources I
can provide.
 
Especially now.”
 
Navarro’s lips twisted in a sour
expression.
 
“Through the years, I’ve
amassed far more enemies than I’ve accumulated friends or money.
 
And, unfortunately, I can no longer shield
him from what he is enduring.”

“I
don’t fully understand.”

“I
need you to protect my son.”

Ten grand to listen.
 
Well, I listened
.

Gage
leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table.
 
“Señor, I’m afraid there has been a bit of confusion.”

“Confusion?”

“I
am not in the protection business.
 
I’m
not a bodyguard or anything of the sort.
 
My specialty is surveillance and, on occasion, tactical insertion.
 
There are thousands, maybe millions, of men
and women better suited for straight security than—”

“If
you’ll allow me to finish,” Navarro said patiently, cutting Gage off.
 
“What I’m referring to is not a traditional
protection job. In fact, you mentioned tactical insertion.
 
Well, in essence, that’s what we’re talking
about tonight.
 
You see, Mister
Harris
, my son is currently—”

The
disjointed conversation was again interrupted, this time by the waiter carrying
a massive black bowl loaded with mussels in marinara sauce.
 
Navarro slid his chair forward, shaking out
his napkin and tucking it into his shirt.
 
He made another request of the waiter who hustled away.

Gage
grabbed the silverware from the setting next to him.
 
He shook out the napkin and placed it in his lap,
not really hungry but placing a few of the mussels on his plate.
 
After eating one—it was superior—he sipped
water and continued the conversation, surprised that his curiosity over this
job was mildly piqued.
 

“You
were about to tell me about your son, Señor Navarro.”

Navarro
shoveled two dripping mussels into his mouth, shaking his head.
 
Once he swallowed the mollusks he dabbed his
mouth.
 
“We will dine first; then we will
discuss business.”

The
two men ate two entire bowls of mussels along with a plate of buttered bread.
 
Their only conversation involved the food,
with Navarro exalting Gage’s choice of restaurants and, as he swallowed his
last bite, proclaiming Il Dipinto’s mussels marinara as the best on the entire
Costa Brava.
 
Gage, who hadn’t been
hungry prior to eating the first mussel, counted thirty-three empty shells on
his plate.
 
He pushed the plate away while
Navarro lit another cigarette.
 
As the
waiter cleared away the dishes, Navarro ordered two café cortados, then seemed
content to smoke in silence.
 
After a few
more minutes, Gage learned that café cortados were espressos with a splash of
milk.

Happy
to have more caffeine, Gage drank his in a few gulps and pushed his chair back while
he waited on Navarro.
 
The older man
sipped his drink before taking a long drag on his dwindling cigarette, staring
over Gage’s shoulder with the placid expression of a man listening to a
beautiful composition of classical music.
 
After several minutes, he crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, clearing
away the smoke of the still air with his hand.
 

Finally,
seemingly sated, he leaned backward and said, “My son, Mister Harris, is in
prison.
 
He has been there for about a
year and it has been all I’ve been able to do to keep him alive.”

Gage
blinked.
 
He fought against repositioning
himself in his chair, managing to remain still.
 
Is he thinking of proposing a
prison break?
Gage thought.
 
Even if it were successful, which is highly
unlikely, I’d make mortal enemies of the Spanish government
.
 
Realizing he needed to hear the man out, Gage
cleared his throat and said, “Please go on,” even though he wanted to
immediately object.

“The
prison, Mister Harris, is probably not the type of reformatory you’re thinking
of.
 
In the United States, at least from
what I know, prisons are dangerous places, yet, at the same time, orderly and
predictable.”

Though
he didn’t necessarily agree with Navarro, Gage nodded for him to proceed.

“Here,
however, the prisons are small and regionalized.
 
And, upon sentencing, prisoners are supposed
to be routed to the penal facility that is commensurate with their crime.”

“And
your son was convicted of what?”

“Narcotics
trafficking.
 
It was an utter sham-job,
orchestrated by my political, and economic, enemies.”
 
Before Gage could respond Navarro said, “To
be fair, and despite my many objections over his choice of vocation, he
was
guilty of narcotics trafficking,
Mister Harris, only not in this instance.
 
They framed him by breaking many laws.”

“I
see.”

“Had
he been sent to the correct facility, he would be serving his time proudly, and
I would be able to protect him in the event of attack.”

“I’m
guessing he was sent somewhere fierce?”

Navarro
leaned forward and clasped his thick hands on the table.
 
“Fierce doesn’t begin to describe Berga
Prison.
 
Every Catalonian gangster and
murderer is there, trying to survive and make a name at the same time.
 
An entirely different order has grown in
those walls, one that has no respect for the power that exists outside the
prison.”
 
A tremor passed through Navarro’s
tanned face.
 
“The last time I spoke with
him, he told me of the violence…and the deviancy.”
 
He paused.
 
“I’ve heard all the stories, Mister Harris, and even served a sentence in
my earlier years…but what my son told me I could never imagine, even in the
darkest corner of my mind.”

This
meeting had been far more protracted than Gage had envisioned, and now it was
getting personal.
 
Knowing there was zero
chance he would ever entertain the notion of intervening with a federal prisoner
in a developed country, Gage made his tone polite.
 
“Señor Navarro, I thank you for bringing me
all this way.
 
I also sympathize with
what you’re going through and, if you’d like, I would be happy to connect you
with someone I know who might be able to help you intervene by infiltrating the
leadership
of the prison, which is
the route I would recommend.
 
But I
cannot assist you in helping your son escape, sir.
 
And by continuing our meeting, I’m doing you
a disservice.”

Navarro
listened to Gage without expression.
 
Then, as casually as if he were ordering another café cortado, he said, “I
want you to go into that prison disguised as a
prisoner
.”
 
He eyed Gage.
 
“I want you to give it one month, and then make
your decision about staying further.
 
I
want you to protect my son, Mister Harris, and create an overall assessment as
to what it will take to keep him alive and well for the balance of the twenty
additional months he will remain there.
 
Or, if he cannot be protected for that amount of time, I need to know
exactly, from a tactician’s eye, what it would take to free him.”

“Señor
Navarro—”

“Everything
has already been arranged.
 
We have
layers of redundancy from the government, in the justice department and
elsewhere.
 
Your insertion will be highly
controlled and safeguarded.”

“But,
Señor Navarro—”

“And
I will compensate you with one hundred thousand dollars, cash, for your initial
thirty days.”

Gage
Hartline fell silent.

“I’ve
looked into your affairs.”
 
Navarro’s expression
was mildly apologetic.
 
“You have few
assets and you report no income.
 
My
sources tell me that a man like you would do well to earn a hundred thousand
dollars in a good year—two-fifty a year if you were willing to live in a
hot-spot like Afghanistan or Syria.
 
They
also tell me you’re the type of man who lives simply, within your means.”
 

Navarro
inclined his head, as if he admired Gage for this.
 
“But knowing something about your past
troubles, and speaking with you on a personal level, I get the feeling that you
would not mind finding your ultimate peace somewhere, be it on a farm, on the
side of a mountain, or in a seaside hut.
 
Perhaps you would like to move here to Catalonia and own a small villa
in the hills.”
 
Navarro’s expression
hardened, a distinguished salesman nearing the end of his pitch.
 
“My money, Mister Harris, will go a long way
to helping you accomplish that and, if you choose to stay on in the prison, I
can guarantee you that you will never have to work another day in your life…unless
you choose to.”

Gage
cleared his throat.
 
“Just so I might
know what you’re referring to, what is the ultimate reward?”

“Fifty
thousand dollars, U.S., for every additional month you stay.
 
And when my son exits the prison alive and in
good enough condition to resume a normal life—I say that so there’s no
confusion—I will pay you a cash bonus of three million dollars, Mister Harris.
 
That’s more than four million dollars for not
even two years of your life.
 
It won’t be
pleasant,” he snorted, “not by a long shot, hence the significant reward.”

Gage
had to remind himself to breathe.
 
“Please
go on,” he managed to say.

“An
associate of mine has the remainder of the details.
 
Those are, as you say, the broad
strokes.”
 
Navarro flattened his palms,
his eyes alight.
 
“Your thoughts?”