The Diaries - 01

by Chuck Driskell

  “So talk,” came the reply. Nicky didn’t budge.

  “Are you okay?” Marcel asked, more curious than concerned.

  “I have a very, very bad hangover, Marcel. Just tell me and go.”

  Marcel spun a chair around and pulled it next to the bed. The smell was overpowering, and Marcel immediately realized the substance on Nicky’s leg was vomit. He pinched his nose shut. “Merde! What happened here?”

  Nicky moaned. “You just won’t let it go, will you?” Marcel was silent. “There were two insatiable women with me last night. Real women: beautiful and willing.”

  “Who?”

  “After you left I found them in a Marais bar looking for a sponsor. I brought them here, we had too much to drink…among other indulgences.”

  “And where are they now?”

  “I had a car service take them back when I got sick.”

  Marcel stepped to the window and opened it, allowing chilly wind to rush into the stinking room. “Hangover or not, we need to talk.”

  Nicky jerked the covers from his face. “Just tell me. Shit, that’s cold!”

  Marcel explained what had happened in Frankfurt, removing the part about Luc and Bruno not bothering to call in. That little tidbit would result in Nicky having the brothers killed, and at the moment, as much as he personally wanted them dead, the manpower needs of the Glaives didn’t allow for a reduction in force. Nicky closed his eyes as the news set in.

  “Why am I just now hearing this?” he asked, raising his hand to his forehead and rubbing it.

  “Luc and Bruno managed to get away unscathed, but it took some time for them to do so cleanly. The Germans think the man we are pursuing, Gage Hartline, is the man who killed her. He is their only suspect.”

  “Have they found him?”

  “Not yet, that I know of.”

  Nicky wiped his nose before twisting to his bedside table. He removed a tissue and blew his nose fiercely, moaning from the pain. Marcel walked across the room and retrieved two Vicodin from a bottle. He stepped to his boss, proffering the pills and the bottled water. Nicky gulped them down and fell back into the pillow. Finally he spoke, softly.

  “You know, Jean hasn’t told us everything about this American and these books he has that are supposed to be so damned valuable. I’m guessing he’s trying to find him on his own so he can sell them for himself.”

  Marcel shook his head, wishing Nicky would drop it about the diaries. “Jean’s a piece of shit,” he said flatly.

  Nicky massaged his temples. “He’s DGSE and he’s greedy. What do you expect?” As Nicky settled back into the bed, his voice was a croak. “Get him here, today.”

  “But Nicky, he’s not exactly in a position to do—”

  Nicky raised his right hand, pointing his pudgy finger at Marcel. “Get Jean in here.” He pulled the covers back over his head and didn’t utter another sound.

  Marcel glanced around the room again, suppressing his hatred for his superior. He lit another cigarette as he exited the room, walking back down to the parlor and using a brand new prepaid cell phone. With Napoleon curled up on the couch next to him, a paw resting on his thigh, Marcel called the second number Jean had given him, this time simply hanging up. It usually took the DGSE agent thirty minutes to return a call, so Marcel eased himself back into the comfortable sofa, smoking and waiting. He petted the snoozing dog, listening to the ticking of the clock. Marcel was at peace, if only for a moment, staring out the picture window at the sun rising, melting the frost and defeating the shadows on the winter lawn.

  Marcel Cherbourg hated Nicky Arnaud. He hated Luc and Bruno. He hated his profession. His eyes wandered the sprawling home; it was suitable for an architectural magazine, save for the gaudy accoutrements. How many people had spilled blood to provide Nicky Arnaud another gold vase?

  As he meditated, Marcel wished he had given Nicky three Vicodin rather than two.

  Better yet, the whole bottle, he pleasantly thought, drifting off to join Napoleon in a nap.

  ***

  Nancy, France

  Thursday was alcohol-free for Damien Ellis—not normally a big drinker, he wanted a clear head before he was due to tour a highly-recommended Charmes winery on Friday. Now in the panoramic city of Nancy, he’d spent the day exploring a thousand-year old monastery and getting deep into the Stephen King novel in a charming café, sipping the best coffee he had ever tasted. After two hours engrossed in the story, he laid the nearly finished book on the table and checked his Timex; there was just enough time to catch Sorgi before the sergeant bolted home to his pretty wife and two little girls.

  Leaving ten euro on the table, Ellis stepped outside, letting the wind hit his face full-on. The cool, fresh air felt good after the warm café and hot coffee. The sunshine was dim, filtered by hazy clouds to the west as the sun’s abbreviated, late-year appearance neared its daily end, already diving toward the horizon. He walked in the direction of his hotel as he dialed the office, asking for Sergeant Sorgi.

  “Sorgi, here.”

  “How’s it going, young man?”

  “Why the heck are you calling me, sir? You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

  “Am on vacation. Maybe I’m just calling you to brag about it,” countered Ellis, his grin showing through the tone of his voice.

  “So brag then.”

  “Seriously, Jim. What’s going on? Anything fun?”

  “Just paperwork, sir. Nothing else.”

  “What paperwork?”

  “Searching out files on some rogue veteran.”

  Ellis could hear the noise of the radios in the background. Though he wouldn’t admit it to a soul, he was beginning to tire of France. The sounds of the office made him pine for his daily routine. “A veteran, huh? What did he do, steal a bottle of liquor?”

  Sorgi laughed. “Well, the polizei made a request for the guy’s DD-214 along with the rest of his file. Says he may be mixed up in that double murder that took place last night.”

  “Double murder? In Germany? Involving a vet?” Ellis asked, incredulous. Murders were rare in Germany; multiple murders almost unheard of.

  “Not only Germany, here in Frankfurt.”

  “In Frankfurt? And an American vet is the suspect?” The news made Ellis stop in his tracks.

  “Yeah, at one of those sleazy hotels over by the bahnhof. Thought you would’ve heard about it. It’s big news, all over the television and the newspaper.”

  “I don’t speak or read French, Sorgi. I haven’t heard anything, and watching CNN International in my hotel room isn’t my idea of fun.” Ellis resumed his walking. “What happened?”

  “They don’t know yet. A hotel clerk and a girl, a really pretty girl, were killed. She was sexually assaulted too, it sounds like. Their only suspect is this guy, the veteran, and the Krauts came in hot and heavy wanting that file and every shred of intel we had on him. Said they had the government’s backing so the commandant hustled what we had right over. They’re still pulling records over the computer from Indianapolis.” Sorgi paused. “It appears something is amiss with the guy they’re seeking.”

  Ellis stepped into the sunshine at an intersection and turned his eyes to the sky. Things like this were just his cup of tea. Interesting. A mystery. The kind of thing that makes life worth living. “Did they ask for our help?”

  “Not yet, although Barron volunteered, of course. You know how the polizei is, though.” Sorgi paused as he spoke to someone in the office about directions to a unit in Stuttgart. He came back to Ellis and apologized. “Sorry, sir. There’s a big commotion over a deal in Stuttgart, Some private first class threatened to jump from a tower because the staff duty wouldn’t let him sign out on leave early.”

  Ellis frowned at the distraction. “About the murder suspect, the vet…what did you have on him?”

  “Just pulled his basic info. Artilleryman, working as a building project manager over here. Pretty vanilla file. Retired early as an E-7 due to a medical.”
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  “Is he running?”

  “They haven’t found him yet, that I know of.”

  Ellis crossed the street, sighing dejectedly. “Okay, then, Sorgi. Call me if I’m needed, seriously.”

  “No, I won’t, but thanks for the offer. You finish your vacation.”

  Just as they were hanging up, Ellis asked a final question—the same one he always asked—the same one all cops ask. “Hey Sorgi…wait. What’s this veteran’s name?”

  Sorgi was silent for a moment; Ellis could hear paper riffling. “Umm, just a sec. Here it is…young guy too. Only thirty-nine. Name’s Hartline. Gage Nils Hartline.”

  Klaxons blared at a thousand decibels in Captain Damien Ellis’s head. He froze on the sidewalk so quickly that a lady bumped into him, cursing him and cellular phones as she brushed past.

  Ellis stopped, steadying himself with his left hand on one of the common yellow French mailboxes, mounted to a building, marked postes. His voice was grave. “Say the first name again, Sorgi. Say it slowly.”

  “Gage. G-A-G-E. Originally from New York. Do you know him?”

  Never in his fifty-three years had Damien Ellis heard of a man being named Gage. Never. Now he had heard the name twice in just a few days. Coincidence? Not likely.

  “Sir?” Sorgi repeated. “Do you know him?”

  “I think I do,” muttered Ellis, licking his lips. “Describe the girl.”

  “Twenty-nine, dark brown hair, brown eyes, olive complexion. As I mentioned, she was attractive.”

  Ellis’s eyes were closed as he listened. He gripped the mailbox as a wave of dizziness passed through him, thinking back to what he had seen and heard from the hotel stairwell in Metz, and then he did something Sorgi had never heard him do:

  Damien Ellis cursed.

  ***

  Gage followed the Main River southward, wanting to put at least double the distance between him and Frankfurt than he already had. He didn’t know in which town he would choose to eventually stop, but when he did, he would find a train station—a small stop without cameras—and use an automat to purchase a ticket to Böblingen. That was the plan. There were two other ways out, in Gage’s mind, but this one made the most sense. He soldiered on, marching as he had done during Special Forces selection so many years ago. As he neared the town of Karlstadt, the river was bounded on both sides by farmland, dormant, the recently harvested hills rolling as far as his eyes could see. Gage walked at a near-jogging speed through the rich farmland, fueled only by his internal mission.

  While he had the ability to zone out all kinds of distractions, Monika’s death loomed large like the sun. He didn’t have to look at it to know it hung above him, blazing forth in its dreadfulness, outshining every thought to pass through his head. But as he pushed on through the farmland, a competing emotion began to rival his sorrow over her death; it was his growing anger. From a tiny seed, as his mind cleared with every step, rage began to course through his veins. The people that wrought such a terrible end on Monika, whoever they were, deserved to die. This he was certain of. But each time he tried to picture a revenge scenario, notions would collide and the lucid thoughts would fall away in a shattering of grief. He was tired. He was in some stage of shock. And his mind was still a mess over Crete. Though he never would admit it, he wasn’t so sure it wouldn’t be better to step in front of the train to Böblingen, rather than ride inside it.

  The river lazed on to his right, lolling along slower than Gage’s foot speed. To his left was a fragrant field. Nutritive brown earth, freshly tilled and waiting on Mother Nature to finish with fall and winter. The damp soil made Gage think, again, of a rectangular hole, seven feet by three feet. Six feet deep.

  Suicide.

  Never in a million years would Gage have considered killing himself as an option. But the thought kept coming back, popping ahead of his other contemplations like an unwanted Internet ad. The ad was obnoxious, advertising death. No more pain.

  There was an entry he’d read in the 1935 diary, the very first diary, the one currently in his pack…

  Today marked my sixth week at work, diary, and something I’d felt coming for the last two weeks finally happened. Something so vile, so detestable, it again makes me ponder facilitating my end. With no brother, and no parents, I often wonder why I keep clinging to life. I’m like a person on a building ledge, my fingernails bloody from hanging on out of some sheer inner will. Why don’t I simply let go, tumble into the breeze, and enjoy the ride down?

  Aldo went out of his way today to find me. He had to have, because his schedule showed him attending important meetings. I was in one of the studies, the one with the books of literature. Approved literature, some of which I suspect has even been rewritten. Standing on one of the ladders, I was cleaning the top of the bookshelves when I heard a click. I turned and there was Aldo, wearing a fine double-breasted suit, hands behind his back, staring up at me with a strange smile. It was the smile he gave for dignitaries and photographs. It was not the smile he gave to impoverished maids.

  I apologized, telling him I had been told to clean here and asking him if I should leave. It was then I noticed he had closed the door. He twisted the brass lock. My heart was audible in my ears.

  Aldo gestured for me to climb down. He offered me his hand. Then, diary, he stood staring at me for what felt like a full day. The large room clock ticked, seeming to grow louder in the gulf of silence. Finally, in a whisper, Aldo asked me to remove everything under my skirt.

  Diary, you know I have never willingly done more than kiss a man. Some of my girlfriends have told me of the things married couples do, and there was the horrible little man who gave me my identity, the one who made me do disgusting things to myself and to him, and I have had dreams at night that occurred outside the bounds of my control, but never before have I willfully engaged in such acts. Though I didn’t know what his motivations were, I’d felt him looking at me differently for weeks now.

  I apologize, diary, for what I will now write. Perhaps if I take my life, or I simply change my mind, I will remove these pages lest someone read them someday…

  Suicide again. What the hell are you thinking about, Gage?

  The quick chirp of disc brakes and the sound of an engine idling snapped Gage from his recollections and self-loathing. He felt his heart lurch but stepped along smartly, his instinct correctly telling him there were eyes watching him.

  The sound of an engine, over his left shoulder, manned by someone. Idling. Waiting. Watching.

  Gage didn’t want to turn all the way around to look. Instead, he gazed to his left. A country road tracked along the river and, in this particular spot, no trees blocked the view from the road to Gage.

  He thought about the jacket he was wearing with the Würzburger Beer logo. Perhaps the woman had called in the theft? He walked at the same pace, waiting for another sound. Fifty feet ahead, the road moved slightly left and was bounded by a guard rail. He focused on the sound of the engine, hoping beyond hope it was just a farmer. The engine had a slightly higher pitch to it, making Gage feel it might be of the smaller variety. He heard it moving again, matching his speed.

  Once inside the protection of the guard rail, as he neared an overpass, Gage glanced over his left shoulder to see that the source of the engine noise had braked, idling by the rail. It was a lone patrolman, on a BMW motorcycle outfitted in the familiar polizei green and white. The man was of good size, with a helmet and mirrored aviator glasses. He was a hundred meters behind Gage, staring directly at him like a hawk might hungrily eye a baby hare.

  Gage turned his head back to the front, wondering if the guy was just bored or had actually made him. He heard the motorcycle’s engine rev. Gage picked up his pace. Then he heard a different noise, a bumping sound. Gage rotated his head again, now almost under the bridge.

  Two hundred meters back, the policeman had turned around and was now easing the motorcycle down the lumpy slope to the walking trail.

  He was coming for
him.

  This was it—decision time. Gage could wait on the policeman and allow himself to be taken in. Everything he had done could be explained away. It would take some time, but with a good lawyer and Colonel Hunter’s testimony, he could beat the rap. Gage was tired, hungry, and nearly defeated. He slowed his pace.

  The policeman was now on the walking trail and was accelerating.

  Gage passed under the bridge. The bike was a hundred feet behind him.

  ***

  Schupo Gregor Brand didn’t suspect the man of anything. There was, however, a nationwide search on for a man roughly the same size as the one down by the river. Gregor thought about Frankfurt, and the distance from where he was currently patrolling. Yes, a man walking very fast could have covered that amount of distance. Especially a former soldier, as the wanted man was. And with the Main River running almost right by where the murder had taken place, it would have made a fine avenue for escape.

  Maybe today would be the day to get promoted.

  This man, however, wore a Würzberger Beer jacket. He was probably just some factory worker whose car was broken down, heading south for second shift. But the way the man walked with those long, efficient strides…and the width of his back muscles…Gregor at least wanted to chat with him.

  After negotiating the slippery slope, he eased the bike into second gear and quickly closed the gap. The man turned left after going through the underpass, taking a stone stairway that led upward to the road. This made Gregor suspicious, and it was less than ten seconds before he arrived at the stairway, stopping the 1200cc BMW with a slight bark from the tires.

  There was no one on the long stairway.

  Gregor’s heart raced as he backed up, whipping the wheel to his left. Leaning forward, he twisted the accelerator and muscled the bike quickly up the steps. At the top, on a two lane road, Gregor’s head swiveled left and right, looking for the man. He was gone, disappeared.

  Heart now pounding, Gregor reached for his chest radio, ripping the mouthpiece from its Velcro holder. That’s when powerful arms jerked him off the bike, pulling him flailing backward into the high winter grass.