“But even still, I want all of Deutschland looking for Gage Nils Hartline.”
***
Gage escaped Frankfurt with his two feet. After learning of Monika’s death, he gathered himself enough to get on the move. In training or in action, one principle that was burned into his soldier’s brain was the age-old rule to get the hell out of a hostile area if you have no other options. So he put one foot in front of the other and headed out at a brisk pace of somewhere between four and five miles per hour. Rather than take the less beaten path, he linked up with the Main River, using the walkway that wended straight through the handsome center of German banking and industry. Through all his grief, Gage knew that walkers by the Main, even in the middle of the night, weren’t all that unusual. He followed the trail until the lights of the city became sparse, and eventually the blackness of the wet night enveloped him, punctuated occasionally by ascending airliners on approach into Frankfurt’s airport, the busiest in all of Europe.
Gage kept a steady pace, walking the path for seven straight hours to the southeast. He passed through the cities of Offenbach and Hanau, seeing many smaller cities come and go as he tried to put as much distance as possible between himself and the scene of Monika’s murder. Eventually, the rain stopped and the sun grudgingly showed itself.
As he walked, he mechanically processed what had happened. The nausea abated once his mind was in fast motion. Gage had been over his and Monika’s actions hundreds of times as he trudged on, desperate to know what exactly had gone wrong. Had Jean and the DGSE killed her? Or more likely, had it been the Glaives? As ruthless as the DGSE was known to be, he had a tough time picturing Jean’s ordering up a cold-blooded killing of an innocent woman. After what Gage had done to the French agent, he could maybe envisage a private hit ordered on himself, but not Monika.
But mobsters, that was another issue altogether. During his time on Hunter’s team, Gage had seen, many times, mobsters use death as an instrument. To them, killing was no different than kidnapping or strong-arming. It was simply a means to get whatever it was they wanted.
And the policeman on the scene had said rape was a possibility.
Rape.
“Motherfuckers,” Gage spoke to the chill morning air, not quite able to muster the anger he so desired. As the sun rose, he donned his sunglasses. Predictably, his head ached as bad as it ever had, pressing his troubled mind back to snippets of Crete. Like what had happened there, he knew this thing with Monika, and whoever killed her, wasn’t the type of thing to just go away. Every time he imagined her kind face and deep brown eyes, the pain rushed back in. She had been killed because of him.
He should have never spared the other man in Metz, and for that he blamed the affair in Crete. As always, all roads in Gage’s mind pointed to Crete: his colossal, leaden cross to bear. He shook the thoughts from his head, whispering aloud a phrase Colonel Hunter had drilled into them:
“Stay focused. You’re inside the mission.”
A stone stairway led into a small town to Gage’s left; a bike path marker indicated the town as Kahl am Main. He ascended the stairs, stopping to let a work truck rumble by in the growing light. There likely wouldn’t be a police station in the small burg, just a constable. If he so desired he could go to the low-level official, explaining everything. Surely it wouldn’t be hard to go back to Metz and prove his innocence by talking the investigators through the actions of that fateful night only four days earlier.
“But only if Monika hadn’t been murdered,” Gage said to himself as he scoped out the small town, his mouth watering from the smell of good German bread baking.
The low sun peaked through the gray clouds, sending intense rays of light through the near freezing temperatures, actually making Gage feel colder while he experienced their scant warmth. He was soaked to the bone. However, his outer appearance, while sloppy, wasn’t so bad that he would draw attention to himself. His stomach was queasy, screaming for water and nourishment.
The town wasn’t the typical German village. This one was mostly new, the stadtmitte laid out in a grid like a kid’s checkerboard. The streets were clean and damp as if a street cleaning truck had just blasted them clear for Gage’s arrival. He kept his head lowered as he moved down the narrow street of the town, turning left and following the smell of strong coffee and the baking bread.
Located just off the modest town square was a simple café. Gage peered through the window, seeing the working men eating their breakfasts of brötchen and speck, hot coffee and juice. He stepped inside, his hunger raging at the smell of the fresh bread. A few of the men, mostly laborers from the nearby coal-energy plant, glanced at the stranger before dipping their heads back to their plates. Gage stood at the counter, waiting on two older men to finish paying. Above the coffee makers, a small television quietly displayed the national morning news on RTL Punkt-6.
Gage studied a paper menu, planning to order a sack of bread, bananas, two egg sandwiches and two large bottles of water. Just as the two older men reached the cashier, his blood went to ice as his own passport picture filled the television screen. Below his picture, in German, the text announced him as wanted for questioning about a double murder in Frankfurt. It reported Gage as armed and dangerous.
Gage glanced around. It seemed every person had stopped what they were doing and was staring at Gage.
Again, his world spun.
Forcing panic from his mind, Gage surveyed the room again. Actually, no one was even giving him a second glance. The men at the counter had their eyes on their plates. The two older men in front of him were discussing their bill. The servers busied themselves with coffee. No one even noticed him.
Delusions. You need food and rest.
Controlling his breathing, Gage glanced at his watch and grunted, turning on his heels and hustling out of the café as if he had just remembered an important appointment. He made an immediate left, walking further into the town’s residential area. His picture would be on every television station, in every newspaper. They would have checked his name, and by this time they would surely know it was an alias. The Germans would be screaming at the Americans to tell them who Gage Hartline really was, but the State Department would have no idea. They would dig through his past, finding a bevy of false fronts but no substance. To his knowledge, his identity was hidden deep in the CIA, and something as trivial—to the CIA—as a murder would not be just cause to open the Pandora’s box of Hunter’s team and the shadowy jobs they had pulled.
But the DGSE knew, thought Gage, questioning himself. Still, he didn’t think a murder investigation would yield anything other than dead ends. A snippet of fear went through Gage’s mind as he thought of the soldiers who he had once served with, prior to his stint on Hunter’s team. Would they be able to identify him, by his picture, after all the years?
“That’s not pressing,” he growled to himself as he moved into a small neighborhood, his hands jammed deep into his pockets and his chin on his chest.
But the thought persisted.
Other than a tiny pocket of people in the Pentagon, the only people who could finger Gage as Matthew Schoenfeld would be Hunter and the members of the old team, or those who had known him before. He wasn’t concerned about the team members, and it was very likely everyone from Wisconsin or the regular Army had forgotten him a year after he left, much less seventeen years.
But now that his picture was out, he needed a new cover, and fast. As he walked down a street, Gage slowed as a man in a factory worker’s heavy uniform left his modest stone house, yelling goodbyes to his wife and son. The boy had his coat on as well and, as Gage milled around the bus stop at the top of the block, he finally saw the boy and his heavyset mother set out in his direction. The boy wore a backpack. She was walking him to school. Gage passed them with his head down, hearing the woman in her thick Bavarian accent—a sure sign she wasn’t from Kahl—speaking about what snacks the boy might want from the market.
Dad went to work. Son he
ading to school. Mom to school and then to the market.
The man had been approximately Gage’s size.
He waited until they turned the corner at the top of the street before he opened the gate that led to the enclosed back yard. Prepared to break a window, Gage was relieved when the back door opened without protest. He went to their refrigerator, spiriting pieces of ham and cheese into a piece of foil. He removed four slices of sourdough bread from a bag on the counter, adding a dollop of butter to the mix. Gage wrapped the package, placing it on the counter, also taking a few bruised apples from a bowl. After glancing through a window up the street, Gage removed a tumbler from the cabinet, holding it under the faucet and guzzling three full glasses. He rinsed the tumbler, drying it with a towel and replacing it in the cabinet.
Gage hustled through the tidy house, finding the bedroom in the back. He went to the closet, removing a pair of tattered khakis, a flannel shirt, underwear, and a black canvas jacket with the Würzburger Bier logo on the breast and back. Gage changed clothes in a hurry, also grabbing a pair of socks from the man’s drawer, stuffing them in the pocket of the new jacket, jamming his soaked clothes into his pack. It was almost as if he had forgotten what it felt like to be dry and warm again. Even as black as his thoughts were after Monika’s death, physical warmth went a long way towards making him feel human again.
Thievery was despicable in Gage’s mind, but due to his predicament, he could see no other option. Gage went to his pack, removing his wallet and producing five hundred euro. He folded the bills, stuffing them into the breast pocket of the only suit in the closet. He then ran to the front of the house, again looking up and down the street from the window. No sign of the woman. Gage locked the front door.
In the bathroom, Gage used the scissors, purchased the night before from the apotheke, and went to work. Moving recklessly, he clipped his face and head, getting as much of his hair that he could. He swept the hair from the counter into a bundle of toilet tissue, flushing it. Then, using the man’s razor and shaving cream, Gage shaved his face and head, nicking himself on the cheek and above the ear. He had to redo the back of his head three times due to missed patches.
Gage rinsed the razor as quickly as he could, using a damp bath towel to wipe the counter before replacing everything from where he found it. He made his way back to the kitchen, and that’s when he heard the front door knob being jiggled.
Gage froze.
The knob rattled again, and then Gage heard the woman’s heavy feet turn and move from the porch. She would be coming to the back. He grabbed the silver packet of food and apples, running to the front door and unlocking it. As soon as he heard her at the back door, he would simply sprint out the front and she would never know he had been there. He turned the door handle as he heard her at the back door, then he stopped cold.
His pack was on the bed!
Gage glanced around, finally diving behind a coral-colored antique sofa. He listened as the woman entered the house, muttering to herself about the locked front door. Gage’s heart went to his throat as she came to the front door, cursing as she learned that it was not locked after all. If she were to look to her left, she would see him. Gage was prepared to pounce. He would have to cover her mouth, take her to the bedroom, and then he would somehow tie her up so he could get away.
She pulled the front door open, twisted the knob, closed it. She stared at it, frowning.
Gage didn’t breathe. The woman shook her head, trying the lock again. With a shrug, she moved away, turning in the opposite direction from where he lay. Now his concern was her going to the bedroom and seeing his backpack. He jumped up, stopping at the hallway and listening. He heard the refrigerator open and close, along with cabinets and drawers; she was putting her groceries away. He chanced a look. Her back was turned, so he tiptoed down the hall and grabbed his pack, moving back up the hallway and spinning into the other room as he saw her shadow moving toward the hallway again.
Flattening himself against the wall, Gage stood ready in case she came into the boy’s room. He didn’t want to hurt this woman, but there was no way to prevent terrifying her if she happened upon him.
She didn’t turn at the boy’s room, instead passing by again and going to the master bedroom. Gage closed his eyes as he listened. Surely she would smell his dirty scent, and the shaving cream. He was relieved to hear the familiar sounds of a person urinating and, with his bundle in his hand, Gage hustled back to his hiding place behind the couch, grabbing his apples and packet of food and rushing out the front door. He crossed the lawn, stomach in his throat and every pounding beat of his heart in his eardrums.
As he walked down the street, with every step of his aching feet he awaited a yell or perhaps a siren. He reached the end of the block, turning back toward the river. He chanced a look back at the house. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Once he was out of sight, he stopped, leaning forward, hands on his knees. He took great breaths, afterward cinching his sunglasses tightly against his eyes.
Better to be lucky than good.
Gage avoided the center of town, veering left and skirting to the edge of the hamlet with his head down, looking like any old factory worker in the black beer maker’s jacket. The last building Gage passed sold farmer’s supplies and implements. Pretending to window shop, Gage instead viewed his reflection in the window. To the close observer, the white shade of his scalp, and the two shaving nicks, would reveal his head and face as freshly shaved. But to anyone searching for the person in the three-year old picture the news was displaying, he now looked markedly different.
Gage walked south through a field, resuming his navigation of the path on the river. He devoured the food from the packet followed by the apples, core and all. He hoped the woman would find no evidence that he had been in her home. The money he had left made him feel slightly better about what he had done.
His step a tad lighter, his stomach full, Gage picked up the pace.
***
Château-Thierry, France
Three hundred miles to the southwest, an early-morning frost had firmly settled on the grass and ornamentals around Nicky Arnaud’s gray stone mansion. The pond to the rear of the house shimmered, sending fog trickling onto the driveway as the cold air attempted to cool the water. The mist was briefly punctured by a shiny black BMW sedan; it came to a halt at the base of the stairway. Marcel Cherbourg stepped out of the car, popping his cuffs, staring at the mansion with dread. He had no desire to go inside and face Nicky Arnaud.
Unfortunately there was no other choice.
He placed the package on the roof of the car and lit a cigarette, staring at his right hand. The knuckles were red and raw, used only a half hour before to belt Luc and Bruno Florence for their blatant disobedience. Marcel had watched the news earlier, seeing the picture of the pretty girl from Saarbrücken. The two bastards had killed her, making up a bullshit story that she had shot at them.
Straying from his explicit orders, the two men had shirked their duties and, instead of reporting in, they had sped away from Frankfurt and gone straight to a whorehouse. Two bottles of liquor later, at sunup, they finally crossed the French border and made their way to Marcel’s home, where he had waited up all night, awaiting their call. The men had cried in their drunkenness as Marcel beat them.
His job had turned to madness.
Something would have to give soon—that much Marcel knew.
He was surprised they had been smart enough to retrieve the book, a diary from 1938. Even if it did have value, Bruno and Luc were probably too stupid to know where to sell it, much less read it.
Taking his time as he stepped toward the house, Marcel wondered how Nicky would take the bad news. It would be one of three ways: calmly, with blustering rage, or violently. There was never any way to predict. Marcel had seen Nicky turn violent over the trivial, and take dreadful news with peace and serenity. What awaited him today?
The front door opened as Walid, Nicky’s servant, awaited his arriv
al. Napoleon, Nicky’s Doberman—who he sometimes called “Napi”—emerged from the door as if launched from a catapult. The dog was the only consistent highlight of coming to Nicky’s mansion, and he matched Marcel’s height as he stood on his hind legs, his front paws over Marcel’s shoulders, licking him like a long-lost love. Marcel enjoyed the moment, rubbing Napoleon’s neck and rippling flanks before making him heel. He looked to Walid.
“Monsieur Arnaud is still in bed,” Walid said to Marcel, using a grave tone, eyes cast downward.
Marcel arched an eyebrow. “Anyone in there with him?”
“No, sir, not that I know of.”
With Napoleon by his side, Marcel entered the mansion. The diary, wrapped in a paper sack, was placed in a drawer before Marcel ascended the curved stairwell. He stopped and turned, instructing Napoleon to stay. It pissed Nicky off that his dog loved Marcel more than him and Marcel didn’t feel like hearing about it.
In the upstairs hallway, he finished his cigarette and removed two waters from the small bar in the nook of the landing. Marcel could see no reason to even mention the diary to Nicky yet. He wanted a chance to read its contents first. The Frenchman stood alone for a moment, resting one of the cold bottles on his knuckles, bolstering himself for the coming confrontation. Finally he walked down the long hallway to Nicky’s door and knocked lightly, using his left hand. There was no response, so he rapped loudly, shouting Nicky’s name.
“What?” came a weak voice.
“It’s Marcel.”
A groan.
Marcel stepped into the room and was immediately overtaken by the smell. He looked to the bed and there was Nicky, lying crosswise on the mattress. The heavy, baroque-style comforter was pulled over his head. Sticking out was his stubby left leg, streaked with something.
“Nicky, we need to talk,” Marcel said, his lip curled.
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