It was clear this was an unprecedented situation and Il Magnifico’s men had no idea what to do. While visibly frustrated, the one who seemed to be in charge reset his countenance. “Excuse me, sir. Please don’t leave. Will you wait here for a moment?”
“I will,” Gage answered. “But I’m not waiting long.” He leaned against a massive wood piling, idly watching as an Agusta helicopter landed at the nearby helipad.
The head security officer stepped away and used his mobile phone, having to yell over the helicopter. Though Gage couldn’t hear exactly what he said, he watched as the security officer gestured with his free hand. He was obviously frustrated. After a moment, the man slid his phone back into his jacket and returned to Gage.
“Very well, monsieur, you may carry your sidearm.”
“You sure?”
“Oui. Il Magnifico himself has allowed this.”
“Good.” Gage removed the pistol from his waist and racked the slide, chambering a round while maintaining eye contact.
“Was that necessary?” the security officer asked.
“Yep.”
With a frown and a shake of his head, the man gestured to the launch—a sizeable craft in itself.
Ten minutes later, Gage was aboard the Ragazza Sexy.
* * *
In his stateroom, Il Magnifico viewed Gage Hartline courtesy of the hidden security camera in the saloon. The American had been shown into the dining area where he accepted a bottle of mineral water. Now he sat on a leather sofa in the adjacent study, waiting patiently, viewing his surroundings. He’d performed a quick look around and now seemed to be vigilantly eyeing every square meter of the dining room.
“Tough looking sonofabitch,” Il Magnifico said to his consigliore.
“I hadn’t noticed,” the consigliore, his name Paul, replied. He was too busy viewing the computer screen on his MacBook.
“What’s the latest?”
Paul shook his head. “Hardly anything since earlier. There’s very little on him.”
“Give me what we have.”
“Gage Nils Hartline, age forty-six. He’s a veteran of the U.S. military and has worked a number of contract jobs in security. Not much else.”
“Paying jobs?”
“He lists his profession as an independent safety contractor. Pays taxes on his meager earnings.” Paul tapped the screen with his fingernail. “Claims a post office box in Raeford, North Carolina, in the U.S. Has lived in Germany on a visa, New York, North Carolina, and also his military stations.”
“What else do we have?”
“Nothing official.”
“Is he off the grid?” Il Magnifico asked. “Is all of that bullshit?”
“Doesn’t appear to be, but if he’s really good, I wouldn’t know anyway.” Paul gently closed the screen of the MacBook. “What did Marcel Cherbourg have to say about him?”
“Not much, other than Hartline’s a close acquaintance and someone Marcel trusts implicitly.”
“What if this Hartline’s a spook? I wouldn’t put it past the CIA to offer Marcel Cherbourg anything he wanted in order to put down a whale like you. And we’ve gotten wind that the Glaives have dabbled in pharma. Marcel might want you gone.”
Il Magnifico shook his head. “Nah. Whatever Hartline did goes deeper than some spook providing connections for the Glaives. Marcel said something big happened a number of years ago. I know enough about Marcel to trust him. He’s a straight player.”
Paul shook his head. It was clear he didn’t agree.
“Besides, if Hartline truly represents the Vogels, then I need to hear what he has to say,” Il Magnifico said. “I need the European pipeline flowing again, now.”
“We’re close on a few other sources.”
“No we’re not. We’re months away. Maybe a year. And it’s doubtful they could ever be as fruitful as Vogel was.”
“Agree to disagree. And you don’t know for sure that he’s here to continue Vogel’s business.”
“What else could it be?” Il Magnifico asked.
Paul offered no response, only a pursing of his lips.
“So, he’s armed?” Il Magnifico asked.
“Yes. The prick wouldn’t meet with you, otherwise.”
“We’ve taken precautions?”
“Marco is behind the two-way glass with a .308.”
“Good. Tell Marco not to have an itchy trigger finger. I don’t need more enemies, especially if this guy is a spook.”
“See?” Paul asked. “You’re open to that possibility.”
“Let’s trust Marcel. Make the call.”
As Paul spoke quietly into his handheld radio, Il Magnifico exited his stateroom, navigating the passageway to the handsome study where his guest waited.
* * *
“Mister Hartline,” Il Magnifico boomed, sweeping into the study and offering his hand.
Gage returned the handshake, eyeing the man across from him. He was tall and lean with broad shoulders. Gage guessed Il Magnifico was probably in his early sixties. He had the sort of deep tan that takes years and constant time in the sun to acquire. His gray hair was full and stylishly swept back, as if he’d just won a challenging yacht race. He wore a voguish, narrow blue blazer over an un-tucked linen shirt with gray cotton slacks. His boat shoes were worn and his Cartier sunglasses dangled from a weathered strap. The man oozed wealth, right down to the expensive dental work.
“Please, have a seat,” Il Magnifico said, gesturing Gage back to the sofa.
“I’d like to sit up top,” Gage replied, pointing upward.
That threw the Italian. He frowned. “There’s a chill in the air, Mister Hartline. We’ll be more comfortable here. Please, sit.”
Gage eyed him evenly and made sure his tone didn’t stray toward threatening. “I’m not here to create trouble for you, sir, but I don’t like sitting in a seat with a weapon aimed at me,” Gage replied, barely gesturing to the massive mirror. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer we sit up top, out in the cold, comfortable or not.”
Il Magnifico shrugged. “We can sit on the sun deck. After you, sir.”
As the Italian exited the study, he motioned to the
