To The Lions - 02 (16 page)

Fausto
opened the door and said a few words to the girls.
 
The quartet sheepishly exited the
bedroom.
 
Several of them gasped when
they saw their friend, despite her now being covered with a sheet.
 
Redon looked upon the girls admiringly,
remembering what Xavier had said about the orgy that had just begun at the
moment of the young lady’s untimely, drug-induced passing.
 
Their presence, and intoxicating smell,
caused Redon to make a mental note, reminding himself of the wicked treasures
that could be had in Lloret this time of year, especially at the misdemeanor
detention center.
 

When
Redon was just a young prosecutor, he’d habitually pop in and spring a cute
coed or two with a quick bribe or a few threats.
 
Afterward, free and clear of charges, they
were as pliable as plumber’s putty, willing to do all sorts of things to
express thanks for their liberation.

The
good old days.

He
snapped his fingers, speaking English.
 
“Just
line up right there.
 
Face me.”

He
waited until all eight cried-out eyes joined his.

“The
gentleman you came here to…
visit
tonight
has been arrested for felony possession of cocaine.
 
He called someone in the local coroner’s
office he thought was a friend when your friend here passed away.
 
I suppose he thought he could hide her death.”
 
Redon shook his head and clucked his tongue.
 
“But that so-called friend at the coroner’s
office thankfully took such lawlessness seriously.
 
And that’s why the man you were here doing
drugs with is now looking at seven years in prison.”

“Who
are you?” asked the tallest girl.
 
Though
her makeup was gone, Redon found her quite delicious, warring with himself not
to be flirtatious.

Removing
his credentials, Redon stepped forward, holding them close to every girl’s eye
as he swept down their small line.
 
“My
name is Cortez Redon, and I’m the top acusador in the state of Catalonia.
 
I’m an officer of the court, and of the law.
 
We’ve had Señor Espinosa on our radar for
some time,” Redon said, lying about Xavier’s last name.
 
“And tonight begins his retribution to the
society he has harmed for so long with his illegal drugs.”
 
Redon tapped his foot.
 
“But now I am puzzled as to what I shall do
with you four.”

“But
we didn’t do anything wrong,” the tall blonde protested.

Redon
smiled thinly.
 
“My dear, you were taking
illegal drugs.
 
There are enough
narcotics here that I can charge each of you with intent to distribute.
 
You were also in possession of drug
paraphernalia.
 
And, most damning, an
attempt was made to illegally dispose of a corpse, along with a potential for
those charges to elevate to some sort of wrongful death.
 
If I so desire, I can easily push for time in
one of our roughest prisons.”
 
He narrowed
his eyes.
 
“Just imagine what the
prisoners, and the guards, would do for a chance at a lovingly innocent Dutch
girl.”

“We
didn’t do any of that,” the blonde pleaded.
 
“We just came here to visit.”

“You
came here to have an
orgía
,” Redon snapped,
turning his nose up as if even mentioning the word somehow dirtied him.
 
“This, of course, will be a portion of your
official arrest reports and, because of Señor Espinosa’s high profile and the
many leaks with the local police, the media will certainly run with it.”
 
He spread his hands above him.
 
“Just think of the headlines and news
stories—
bevy of Dutch girls in five-on-one
sex romp with Spain’s largest drug dealer
.”
 
Redon jolted, as if something occurred to him, whispering to himself but
purposefully loud enough for the girls to hear.
 
“So
that’s
why his attorney insisted
that he be immediately examined by a doctor.
 
They’re going to collect DNA from his genitals and try to implicate
those he copulated with.”

Redon
glanced up sharply, seeing looks of abject horror on the faces of two girls:
the striking blonde and the slightly pudgy one with brown hair.
 
It was all he could do not to laugh.

A
few of the girls began to cry.
 
The tall
blonde shook her head, eyeing Redon as she pleaded with her eyes.
 
One girl covered her face in her hands.

Let it burn…

Let it burn…

When
they eventually began commiserating with one another in Dutch, Redon spoke
loudly as he pinched his chin in a pontificating manner.
 
“I suppose there is
one
possibility for you young ladies not to be implicated.”

They
each looked at him as if he were ruler of the world.

Redon
gestured to Fausto, standing off to the side.
 
“This gentleman worked for Espinosa, but has been most helpful on this
evening.
 
I’d very much like to spare him
the indignity of an arrest—as long as he continues to be compliant.”
 
Cocked his eyebrow.
 
“And if you agree to what I’m considering,
then I suppose I could afford each of you the same courtesy.”

The
girls pleaded in three distinct languages.
 
One girl even fell to her knees.

Perfecto!

Redon
explained that he had more than enough evidence to convict Señor Espinosa for
numerous crimes dating back over a number of years.
 
Then, as if he were working it all out aloud,
he again spoke of his desire to prevent a media circus by choosing to ignore
what had happened here tonight.
 
“Because,
in actuality, it would take away from Espinosa’s arrest.
 
I don’t want it cheapened by it transforming
into a sex story.
 
I want him exposed for
the drug-pushing monster he is.”
 
His
eyes wandered to the sheet, then to Fausto.

“If
you were to drive the girls and,” he gestured to the corpse, “
her
…back into Lloret, the dead girl
could be positioned somewhere on a quiet street, the beach, wherever.
 
Her friends could ‘
find’
her and she would simply be pronounced as one of the resort’s
many unfortunate tourist overdoses.
 
And
I, in my great benevolence, could make a call to Lloret’s
jefe de la policía
and tell him to resist his urge to
scrutinize.”
 

Redon
turned eyes to the women.
 
“I could also
tell him to forget the drug tests they typically administer to the friends of
the deceased, provided each of you agree to leave quietly and never breathe a
word of this to anyone.”

The
young ladies eagerly agreed to cooperate.
 
Redon felt they would have done anything he asked.

Fifteen
minutes later, after Fausto and the girls deposited the corpse in the trunk of
the Mercedes and headed off to find a remote area of Lloret, Xavier exited the
bedroom from where he’d listened to Redon’s performance, clapping slowly.
 
“Bravo, Señor Redon!
 
That was a stage-worthy performance.”

Xavier
walked into the kitchen, coming back with a brown paper sack weighted down with
several stacks of bills.
 
He pulled it
back before handing it over, saying, “And you’re certain this won’t be traced
back to me?”

“Did
you have sex with her?”

“Which
one?”

“
La chica muerta
.”

“I
never touched her.”

“Then
it won’t come back,” Redon said, taking the bag and setting it aside.
 
He pressed his lips together, smirking at
Xavier.

“Why
the face?” Xavier asked, lifting the remnants of a beer and drinking it.

“Because
the money in that bag is peanuts compared to what you will soon be paying me.”

“What
are you talking about?”

“What
else was it that you wanted from me?”

Xavier
shrugged.
 
“It’s been a long night,
Cortez.
 
I don’t feel like solving
riddles.”

“Do
you recall what you requested of me at the wedding?”

“About
tracking a satellite phone.”

Redon
nodded.

“What
about it?” Xavier snapped.

“After
a number of painstaking inquiries, I’ve found a dirty American military general
at a joint air base down south in Andalusia.”
 
The acusador took a majestic breath, his face triumphant as he said, “If
given a region, he can relay all satellite conversations coming to or from that
region.
 
When your man is picked out
through computer voice recognition, the general can pinpoint him down to the
meter.”

Xavier,
seemingly unimpressed, shrugged.
 
“Very
good, Cortez…now all we need is the old bastard to make a call.”

Pressing
his tongue into the pit of his cheek, Redon trembled with excitement.

“What?”
Xavier yelled.

“Well,
señor…guess who I had a meeting with on this very evening?
 
Guess who has found a new patsy to insert
into Berga?
 
And guess who will be
communicating with him…by—satellite—phone?”

“Why
didn’t you call me?” Xavier roared.
 
“We
could have killed him tonight!”

Redon
dismissed this with an effeminate wave of his hand.
 
“The precautions that man takes.
 
I was picked up very far away.
 
They searched me, then drove me to another
car, checking for tails the entire way.
 
I had no idea where we would meet.”

“You
could have worn a bug.”

Redon
shook his head.
 
“They swept me.
 
No phones either.
 
I’d have been brutally killed for trying.”

Xavier
cursed.

“You’ve
missed the point.
 
As I said, Navarro is
back in business.
 
All we do now is pay
this American general for his services, and we wait for the call.”

“You’re
certain another man is going into Berga?”

“Almost
certain.
 
He tried to act disinterested
but Navarro has thrown so much money at him, how could he possibly say no?”

“How
much money?”

“Millions
for the full tenure.”

“Did
he pay the others that much?”

“No.
 
It’s an indicator of his fear.”

A
flush spread over Xavier Zambrano.
 
His
eyes moved all about the villa as he processed everything he had heard.
 
“This is it,” he whispered.

“Pardon?”

“I
know it, Cortez.
 
I feel it in my
bones.
 
This will be the old prick’s
death knell—his fatal mistake.”
 
Xavier’s
white teeth gleamed.
 
He opened his arms,
leaning back and letting out a victory shriek.

Chapter Nine

As
promised, Gage had awoken early and planned their trip after speaking with the
hotel’s concierge.
 
That done, he’d found
a pay phone and called Colonel Hunter, bringing him up to speed and asking for
any information the retired officer might be able to glean from his
contacts.
 
Hunter told Gage to call back
tomorrow.

Traveling
by rail, Gage and Justina’s first leg was from Girona, Spain to Marseille, in
France.
 
The only available train was a
slow-moving regional, making the leg take seven long hours.
 
After a thirty-minute stop and a few tasty
donor kebabs outside the train station, Gage and Justina now rocketed to the
north on a TGV Duplex train.
 
Though the
Marseille to Paris segment of the trip was nearly twice that of the Girona to
Marseille segment, it would take only half as long due to the blistering speed
of the famed French bullet train.
 
Gage
glanced up at the digital display, watching as the train flirted with 300
kilometers per hour, about 185 miles per hour.
 
They were due in Paris just before nine tonight.

He
turned his eyes down to Justina, sleeping steadily with her head in his
lap.
 
As he swept her hair back from her
face, he wondered exactly what this trip might bring.
 
Earlier, before they’d departed, he told her that
they would need to pinch their pennies in Paris, drawing laughter from Justina
after he’d explained the colloquialism.

“We
can just go camping if you’d like,” she’d said.
 
“I just want to spend time with you, with no pressures and no worries.”

But
Gage had insisted on Paris.
 
Partly for
his own catharsis.

He
stared out the window, past the Rhone River, to the hills surrounding the Rhone
valley.
 
The last time he’d traveled to
France with a woman, he’d gotten her killed.
 
The sudden burst of horrid memories sent a tremor through Gage.
 
He wiped his palms on his shirt, regulating
his breathing.

Never again.

Justina
stirred, looking up at him.
 
“Where are
we?”

“Near
Valence, France,” Gage whispered.
 
“Go
back to sleep.”

“How
long?”

“Just
a few more hours.”

“You’re
sweating.
 
Are you okay?”

“Sure,
I am,” he said, forcing a laugh.

“Good.”
 
She stared up at him, touching his face with
her hand.
 
“This is nice, Gage.”

Pushing
the unpleasant thoughts aside, he said, “I agree.
 
Very nice.”

“I’ve
never been so happy.”
 
With that, she
nestled her curled body into her seat, again cradling her head into Gage’s lap.

Resuming
his observation of the French countryside, Gage resumed his vows—screaming the
words in his mind.

Never again!

* * *

Paris,
France

La Ville des Lumières
was alive with energy.
 
The evening was
quite cool and it had rained earlier, but now, despite the bright lights of the
city, the brightest stars could be seen twinkling above as Gage and Justina
walked hand in hand through the Tuileries Garden.
  
Even though it was almost midnight, they’d
just finished their evening meal, having feasted magnificently at an affordable
7
^th
arrondissement restaurant recommended by their hotelier.

The
restaurant itself had been a bit of a shock to Gage.
 
Cavernous and consisting of two levels, the
eatery was outfitted with large central screens showing ribald black and white
silent films.
 
The films weren’t exactly
pornographic but did display quite a bit of naked skin of both females and
males from what appeared to be early 20
^th
Century footage.
 
Justina had found the movies incredibly
amusing, giggling every time the screens showed something bawdy.

Both
of them quite full, having crossed back over the Seine, they strolled to the garden
park, heading west on the crushed gravel trail, heading toward the brightly lit
Arc de Triomphe up the hill in the distance.
 
Justina suddenly stopped.

“I
thought you wanted to see the Arc?” Gage said.

“So,
I see it,” Justina said, gesturing with her hand.
 

Though
it was dark in the gardens, there was enough ambient light for Gage to tell she
was smiling.
 
“Do you want to go
somewhere else instead?” he asked.

“
Bardzo
,” she replied in her native
tongue.

“What
does that mean?”

“It
means, ‘very much so.’”
 
She grasped his
hand, pulling him to the north.

“Where
are we going?”

She
led him on.

After
they crossed the Rue de Rivoli, he asked her again.

“Back
to the hotel,” she said.
 
“Am I going the
right way?”

“Make
a left here,” he said.
 
“You tired?”

“Not
at all,” she replied, smiling again.

Their
hotel was small and inexpensive—inexpensive for Paris—just a block off the Place
Vendôme in the 1
^st
arrondissement.
 
Despite being basic, the outside of their art nouveau hotel was
charming.
 
The building was tall and
narrow, faced in glazed masonry with accents of decorative black iron.
 
Justina stopped at a small street-side cart,
purchasing a bottle of red wine, a large bottle of water and a pack of
cigarettes.

“Now
we’re really ready,” she said, a bottle in each hand.

Upstairs,
as Gage’s heart hammered in his chest, Justina searched the room for a
corkscrew.
 
“
Skurwysyn!
 
We’re in a Paris
hotel room and they don’t have a corkscrew?”

Gage
produced his utility knife and had the cork out in seconds.

“Why,
thank you,” she said.
 
When she couldn’t
find a glass, she gave Gage the water bottle, clinking it with the wine.
 
Then she turned the wine up, chugging
mightily.

“Careful
now,” Gage laughed.

“Screw
it.
 
I’m on vacation.”
 
Walking into the small bathroom, Justina
turned the shower on and told Gage to get cleaned up.

His
nervousness quelled somewhat by her amusing actions, Gage nodded and
complied.
 
When he came out from the
bathroom, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, Justina was nowhere to be seen.
 
Moments later she came in from the hallway,
putting her cigarettes and lighter on the small shelf by the door.

“My
turn.”
 
She took another slug of the wine
before closing herself in the bathroom.
 
Gage dropped to the bed, taking large, hyperventilation-style breaths.

“Be
calm, buddy,” he said to himself fourteen times in a row.

After
what seemed to be several hours, the bathroom opened, spilling steam into the
cool room.
 
Justina, wearing one of his
long t-shirts, turned off the light, revealing only her silhouette.
 
He stood.
 
Justina came to him.
 
They kissed,
gently at first, growing to heated passion.
 
Justina turned him as they kissed, both of
them falling to the bed.
 
They kissed
again as her hands slid downward, sliding his shorts and underwear down.

Gage’s
heart pumped abnormal quantities of blood as she reached under the long
t-shirt, sliding her panties down her legs.
 
Then she pulled the long t-shirt over her head, standing still for a
moment, her eyes joined with his as he viewed her form.

Justina
was tall and lean, and the body Gage had first seen in the bikini in the club
Eastern Bloc, and later on the beach, did not disappoint.
 
Her skin had the envious tautness of a person
in her early twenties.
 
Her shoulders were
square and her breasts full and upturned at their dark points.
 
Two silky curves occurred as his eyes slid
downward, inward at her trim waist and back out at the swell of her hips,
framing the delicateness of her femininity that he somehow willed himself not
to look at.

She
climbed onto the bed on all fours, moving to one side of the bed as she slid
under the covers, holding them up until he did the same.
 
Then, just as she’d done the two nights
before, she rolled to her side and draped his arm over her stomach.

Gage
could hardly breathe.

His
bodily response was completely involuntary but, judging by the subtle movements
of hid bedmate, welcome.
 
She pressed backward
into him, turning her head so her mouth was brushing against his.
 

“Love
me, Gage.”

Her
words set him in motion.
 
Cupping her
face in his hands, he allowed her to roll to her back as he moved astride her
lean body, kissing her.
 
After a moment
he pulled his head back.
 
Justina was
smiling.

She
was quite beautiful and he told her so.

Justina
slid her nails down his back, pulling him into a blissful union that occurred
three unforgettable times over the course of the Parisian night.

It
was Gage’s finest evening in quite some time.

* * *

The
next day, after a hearty breakfast and three hours touring the Louvre, Justina
napped while Gage made his way down the Rue de Rivoli.
 
After quite a search, he eventually located a
phone booth—an anachronism these days, but still useful to a person wanting to
make an anonymous call.
 
While the operator
asked Colonel Hunter if he would accept charges from a Gregory Harris, Gage
checked his watch.
 
It was eight in the
morning across the Atlantic in North Carolina.

“Hunter,
here.”

“Good
morning, sir.”

“It
is a good morning.
 
Gettin’ some
rain.
 
We need it.”
 
Gage could hear the whooshing as his former
commander dropped down into his La-Z-Boy.
 
“How’s Paris?”

“Not
bad, actually.”

“Yeah,
I spent two months there right after ‘Nam, with a task force from the French’s
Dragon Thirteenth.
 
The French are easy
targets for ridicule but, from my point of view, they get a bad rap at times.”

“Agreed.
 
So, sir, did you learn anything about the job
I’ve been offered?”

“A
little on the folks involved.
 
Sketchy,
mainly.
 
Those fellows aren’t the
terrorist variety, so most of my contacts don’t have ‘em on their radars.”

“That’s
what I figured.”

“Of
what I did learn, the son, Cesar, is a certified scumbag.
 
That came from three sources.
 
In the event you did take the job, you
couldn’t trust him.
 
Ever.
 
He and his pop have had a lot of differences,
too.”

“Did
you learn anything new about Ernesto?”

“Didn’t
learn anything new.
 
From all I hear, he
is what he is, but isn’t a bullshitter.”

“Okay,”
Gage breathed.

“But,”
Hunter said, using a brighter tone, “I did learn a few things about this Cortez
Redon fellow.”

“We
know he’s dirty, if he’s taking Navarro’s money.”

“That’s
a fact, for sure.
 
A contact of mine
spoke to a friend in Spain, somewhere in their justice system, and the fellow said
Cortez Redon’s not only dirty, but he’s one of the most spiteful, mean
sonofabitches on the Iberian peninsula.”

“Is
this source good?”

“I
trust my guy, and my guy said his source is impeccable.
 
Lie down with Cortez Redon, son, and you
might as well lie down in a bed of rattlers.”

“Well,
that clenches it.
 
I’m out.”

“Don’t
blame you a bit.”
 
Hunter cleared his
throat.
 
“So, how’re things going with
you and your new friend?”

“Pretty
good, sir.”

“I
can hear that smile of yours through the phone.”

“As
usual, you nailed it.”

“When
will you head back?”

“Not
sure.
 
Soon, I hope.
 
Paris is expensive.”