The Diaries - 01 Read Online Free PDF Page A

turned on.
    “You can let him
go now,” Nicky said dismissively.   “Show’s
over.”
    Mercifully
unconscious again, Pierre slumped and fell lifelessly to the floor.
    Nicky eyed Marcel
as he stepped to the pantry, opening the door as he might open a present on
Christmas morning.   He murmured a few
consoling words as he stepped inside.   Marcel closed his eyes when he heard the scream; he massaged his temples
when he heard the slap.
    Ten minutes later,
as Nicky was finishing his vile act with Pierre’s wife, Marcel smoked in the
kitchen, trying to block out the sounds.   Pierre’s body lay between the island and the long counter, a crimson
pool of sticky blood surrounding his battered, charred body.   Marcel’s eyes went from Pierre to the profile
of Bruno standing in the entryway.   He
was rubbing himself through his pants, turned on by the atrocity taking place
in the next room.   Leon was out of sight,
probably next to his cousin, getting a front row view.
    Nicky Arnaud, the
high boss of Les Glaives du Peuple , was out of control.   He’d always been foolish, but his instability
had grown with his power, tilting to insanity when he had ascended to the
throne three years earlier.   Marcel
Cherbourg was no saint, but there was a way to do things without the collateral
damage Nicky Arnaud always seemed to create.   A way to do things that ensured a future without rivals.   A way to do things while maintaining an air
of sanity.
    But Marcel was
also a pragmatist.  
    He stepped out to
the rear porch for some air.   There would
come a time when he might be able to do something, but tonight was not the
night.
    There came another
scream as Nicky invited his cousin to join in the fun.
    “Bastards,” Marcel
whispered to the night, pulling the door shut in his search for peace.

    ***

    Saturday, October 31 – Frankfurt,
Germany
    The Bischen was a small restaurant specializing in freshly-baked
bread and strong, dark coffee in the German style.   Gage was there early, picking his way through a
hunk of spiced bread, scanning the headlines of the Allgemeine .   He’d had his standard two cups of coffee and
switched to tap water to keep his nerves in check.   Fashionably late and typically French, Jean Jenois breezed in twenty minutes after their scheduled meeting
time, his flowing black hair still damp from his morning shower.   He was well turned out in a thin-cut charcoal
suit, wide-open collar, and black alligator shoes.   Gage knew who Jean worked for, but always
wondered where he acquired his real money.   He certainly didn’t get it in the employ of the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, or
DGSE, as it is known worldwide.
    “Herr Hartline, so
good to see you,” Jean said, using nearly unaccented German and wearing a look
of amusement that always annoyed Gage to no end.   Without being overt, it was as if Jean took perverse
delight in Gage’s struggles.   But the
only way he would have known about them is if he had looked into Gage’s
personal affairs, something he could easily do if he wanted.   Or maybe Gage was simply being paranoid.
    Gage nodded to
Jean, motioning to the waitress.
    “Coffee with heavy
milk,” Jean said dismissively.   “We’ll be
outside.”  
    The waitress
sauntered away as Jean led Gage to a table on the sunny sidewalk.   “Let’s enjoy the sun while we can, yes?”   Jean’s voice was baritone and silky
smooth.   He lit a cigarette, humming to
himself as he briefly looked away, a smile appearing as if a delicious memory
had flitted through his mind.   After a
moment he focused on his occasional contractor.   “Gage, my old friend…you look like shit.”
    Gage slipped on
his sunglasses, feeling a twinge of pain behind his eyes.   He rubbed his blond stubble which had
recently become flecked with a few burgeoning gray whiskers.   “This is what not sleeping does to you.”
    Jean pushed the
cigarettes across the table.   He placed
the Zippo