In the midst of their discussion about Gage’s recent conflict on the island off the coast of Honduras, two servers arrived with their main courses. Marcel waved his hands over the extra large platters, describing the two dishes. First was grilled sea bass fillet with lemon confit, rougaille and fondant potatoes. The other dish consisted of braised lamb shank, pumpkin cream and roasted Jerusalem artichoke. The fragrances from each were divine. Gage went first, taking healthy portions of both. The rougaille was the star of the show—a tomato based sauce with a great deal of depth and heat. The conversation slowed as both men gorged themselves.
When his plate was clear, Gage mopped up the remaining sauce with two pieces of bread before sitting back and sipping his water. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead from the heat of the sauce. He waved off the server and told Marcel to order anything else he wanted but, other than water, he was done.
“No dessert?”
“Maybe a long walk,” Gage joked.
Marcel spoke a few brief words to the server. She took all their plates away and came back with a fresh bottle of mineral water, topping their glasses. She used a crumber to clean the linen tablecloth. Another server appeared with a pot of strong black coffee. After trading Marcel’s unused ashtray for a new one, both servers retreated to the kitchen and closed the door.
“We now have some privacy,” Marcel announced. He lit a cigarette and removed a white letter size envelope from inside his jacket. With the cigarette dangling from his mouth, Marcel placed the envelope on the table and stabbed his rigid index finger into the paper, cocking an eyebrow at Gage.
After a moment, Gage said, “Does what’s in that envelope answer my question?”
Marcel removed his cigarette and blew smoke to the side. “Your suspicions were correct. It seems your Herr Karl Vogel was deep into a nefarious business activity that is among the world’s most profitable. We’ve dabbled in it but have never been able to make it work on any grand scale.”
Gage took the envelope and used a clean butter knife to slit it open. Written in ink was the name of a man—there was nothing else. The man’s name was Vincent “Il Magnifico” Colombo. Gage looked up at his French mobster friend.
“You’ve heard of him?” Marcel asked.
“No. Not that I remember, although Il Magnifico sounds familiar.”
“I don’t know him. But Nicky did.” Marcel paused for effect. “We do not work with Colombo anymore.”
“Who is he?” Gage asked.
“He’s a drug seller. He’s almost certainly one of the largest, if not the largest, drug sellers in the world. His sales rival that of enormous corporations. He’s personally amassed a fortune reaching into the hundreds of millions using renegade and corrupt republics to shield his activities.”
Gage ruefully shook his head. Another Sonny Calabrese.
“Do you know anything else about him?” Gage asked.
“He’s in his late-fifties, perhaps. He’s from Milan and he’s classically-educated. Worked in logistics at one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world, in Switzerland, before he went rogue. I brushed shoulders with him ten or fifteen years ago in Paris. That was when he was just starting in his current business. Like I said, I never knew him. Since then, he’s lived all around the world. From what I learned today, he’s typically either on his yacht or splitting time between Tangier and Medellin, depending on the season. Il Magnifico is rumored to be a welcome guest at the Kremlin, a close friend of Putin’s.”
“And he was connected to Karl Vogel?”
Marcel dragged on his cigarette, squinting at Gage, drawing the moment out as his strong cigarette crackled from the rush of oxygen. “Today I made three phone calls. The first two weren’t fruitful. The last was to a former associate of Il Magnifico who now lives in hiding. You’ll forgive me for not revealing this man’s name. He told me that Karl Vogel was Il Magnifico’s largest supplier for many, many years. Vogel had unique and ingenious methods of purchasing staggering amounts of drugs from his sources in Germany and all corners of Europe.”
Gage blinked. “Seems odd.”
“Why?”
“Drugs from Germany?”
“Germany is among the world’s top producers.”
Gage shrugged before moving on. “What else?”
“That’s all I know.”
“That’s it? The way you ended, it seemed as if there was more.”
Marcel puffed thoughtfully. “If I had to guess, this is the connection you’re seeking. My source is not a man to mislead me. I would assume your Herr Vogel somehow laundered his sourcing income through his legitimate ventures.”
“Sounds like a hot lead.” Gage leaned back in his chair, scratching his chin, processing this confusing news. For now, it was merely a connection—not proof of anything. But still—it demonstrated Vogel was almost certainly guilty of gross improprieties.
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. Dig into it, I suppose.”
“As I’m sure you might imagine, Il Magnifico isn’t surrounded by thugs like you encountered in Honduras. His men are almost certainly warriors of the finest grade. Remember this as you ‘dig in.’”
The two men were quiet for a moment.
“What would you do if you were me?” Gage asked.
“Do you want to pursue this?”
“I do. I’m not out to avenge Karl Vogel. But if this Il Magnifico killed him, or had him killed, I’d like to make sure there’s peace between him and Claudia. If there isn’t, I’ll do what I can to make sure she and her family aren’t still targets.”
Marcel listened to
