The Diaries - 01

by Chuck Driskell

  ***

  Gage knew he had crossed the line now. Killing a mobster was one thing, especially in self-defense. But assaulting a cop—in any country—is at the outer fringe of lunacy.

  The policeman struggled as Gage pulled him into the high weeds, well below the sightline from the road. Gage had the element of surprise, and gravity, on his side. Controlling the policeman with his arms and his legs from behind, Gage cinched his left arm under the man’s helmet. The policeman was trying to reach his pistol but Gage clamped his legs around the man, trapping his arms with “hooks”, in martial arts parlance. Just like he had done on the Lufthansa flight, using his right arm as the force, Gage tightened his left arm under the policeman’s head, causing blood to cease its flow to the brain. Within fifteen seconds, the policeman was unconscious.

  ***

  Gregor Brand felt wet. He opened his eyes, feeling hung-over. He also felt confined, realizing he was unable to move his arms. They were secured behind his back in the wet grass. He turned his head to see a man with a ragged buzz cut, wearing his own polizei leathers, pointing Gregor’s service Heckler & Koch P10 at his head. It was the man from earlier, and he spoke in smooth, hoch Deutsche.

  “Be quiet and I will not hurt you.”

  Gregor felt an odd calm come over him. While this was a most unnerving situation, he actually instantly believed the man. He blinked several times, struggling to get moisture to his tongue. “You are the murderer from Frankfurt.”

  Gage’s eyes flicked to the name badge on the leathers he now wore. “No, Officer Brand, I am not. That was my girlfriend who was killed, but it wasn’t me who did it.”

  Gregor allowed his head to lie back in the weeds. “Why, then, am I handcuffed and you have stolen my uniform and sidearm?”

  Gage lowered the pistol a fraction. “Because I have been wrongly accused and it’s not as simple as turning myself in. There are other factors at play.”

  “Then you’re digging an even deeper hole,” the policeman said gravely.

  “Be that as it may, I’ve got a question for you. How often do they expect you to report in by radio?”

  “Why should I tell you that?”

  Gage lifted the pistol, tipping the slide back to check to see if there was a round seated in the chamber. With an audible click, he thumbed off the safety and pressed the cold Heckler into the side of Gregor’s face.

  “Sometimes hours between reports,” Brand said quickly.

  Gage nodded, correctly guessing it was more often than that. He pulled the pistol away and dragged Gregor, gently, across the stairway into the weeds next to the bridge. After a moment’s searching, he found a metal support small enough to accept Gregor’s second set of handcuffs. Gage snapped one end of the cuffs around the support and attached the other end to the cuffs already behind Gregor’s back.

  The policeman could only come to his knees, and even that was a stretch. He was held to the bridge, wearing only his long-john pants, socks and a t-shirt.

  “It’s very cold,” he protested.

  “Hang on,” Gage answered, reaching into the side bag of the bike and retrieving the beer jacket. He draped it over Gregor and turned to retrieve the bike.

  “But no one can see me from the road. The traffic is too loud for them to hear me yelling.”

  “That’s the idea,” Gage said, lifting the heavy bike from its side and mounting it. “Listen, I’m sorry I had to do this. Even on a chilly day, someone will walk by on the path at some point. They’ll get you free. I’m betting within an hour.”

  Gregor leaned back against the bridge and let out a great breath. As Gage donned the helmet, Gregor asked him one final question. “What will you do now?”

  Gage pulled on Gregor’s aviator sunglasses. “I have important business to attend to.”

  He started the bike, found his gear, and was off and running, northbound.

  ***

  Gage accelerated to well over a hundred kilometers per hour. As he familiarized himself with the Bavarian-bred BMW, he knew he could have told the policeman everything. Even in his escape, Brand would relay what Gage said to the investigators, and they, in turn, would turn a probing eye to the French mobsters and to Jean Jenois. And while Gage’s conscious mind couldn’t quite admit it, a small piece of him knew he had saved the information just for himself.

  After he had the bike’s controls down pat, Gage needed extra assurance that he would have enough time to do what it was he needed to do. He pulled off onto the right shoulder and began to search the bike as traffic whizzed by. Once he had been through the hard side-bags where he stashed his clothes and pack, Gage opened the top compartment, seeing what he was looking for: a small GPS device and its power source. An old pulse-variety GPS, it would most likely only burst its location every minute or so, and was probably used by the polizei to track movements for efficiency’s sake. Gage undid the two small straps, unclipped the batteries from their charger, and pocketed the device.

  Back on the bike, he rocketed forward, the front tire lifting through each of the first three gears. He flipped the switch for the siren and flashing lights. The tractor trailer ahead immediately signaled and pulled off onto the shoulder. Gage parked the bike behind the truck and walked to the driver’s cab.

  “I wasn’t speeding,” the driver offered immediately.

  “Where’s your bill of lading?” Gage asked in German. The man handed a sheaf of papers over and Gage looked at them, handing them back after a moment.

  “Heading to Hannover?”

  “Yes. What’s the problem?” the driver asked.

  “No problem,” Gage answered, offering a fake smile. “You can go now. Just a routine check.”

  The driver frowned as he put the rig in gear. Just as he was beginning to get the large machine moving again, Gage tossed the GPS unit into a hollow between the cab and the trailer. That little move would likely buy him even more time as the polizei would undoubtedly think he was headed north to Hannover. This would be backed up by the handcuffed officer’s testimony that his crazed assailant had sped off to the north. This would hold up until they found the GPS unit in the truck, after that all bets would be off.

  After the truck moved away, Gage wheeled the BMW back to the south, pushing it to well over 200 kilometers per hour. Böblingen was an hour away by car, half that if Gage could maintain his speed.

  Head down, Gage twisted the throttle to the stops. He did the math as the BMW exceeded 250 kilometers per hour; satisfied that he was doing in excess of 150 miles per hour. For safety’s sake, he switched on the flashing lights but not the siren.

  The cold air blasted him with a welcome wake-up call as he leaned forward on the bike. Weaving in and out of occasional traffic on the two-lane road, Gage pressed the motorcycle to its limits. He took in great breaths of the rushing air and, for the first time since Monika’s death, Gage Hartline felt very alive.

  ***

  Château-Thierry

  Marcel patted Napoleon, the two of them nestling into the sofa. Finding his place, Marcel resumed his reading.

  I’ve been exposed to violence since I was a girl. My grandparents would keep my brother and me for a month during each of our childhood summers and, even though I loved him, my grandpapa would sometimes have too much to drink and take out some sort of pent-up anger on my grandmother. My brother and I would lay there in that stuffy back room, crying into our pillows, helpless, our tears matching Oma’s as we could hear her sobs. And grandpapa would leave afterward, trotting away on that broken down old horse. The next morning Oma would make us breakfast, smiling broadly and talking brightly as if nothing ever happened. She would have a knot on her head, or a patch of hair missing, but would go about in the kitchen humming along as if that day were the best in years.

  Grandpapa would return late in the morning, always carrying a bouquet of flowers or a box of candy. Oma would accept his kiss, but nary a word was ever uttered between them usually until that evening. And after that, grandpap
a wouldn’t drink for another week or two, before it would happen again. But because Oma always seemed to love him despite his actions, we loved him too.

  But Aldo’s rage is something altogether different.

  I’d seen evidence of it over the years since I have been here. One particular morning, just after he’d indicated to me which horrible act he wanted me to perform, he received a telephone call which made him smash the phone on the floor. A small piece of metal had flown from the smashed object, cutting my cheek. When he saw me wincing, he grasped me by my shoulders, shaking me, telling me to let it bleed and screaming over and over that I had no idea of the sacrifices he was making for the deserving people in the world. Diary, I cannot describe his rage. I thought his head might burst open in his anger.

  He took me after that, on the floor, his arousal coming in bizarre waves as he cursed the Jews while he committed his acts on me. It was different than any other time before, because normally he didn’t speak while being intimate. I’d stifled my tears as I feared what might await me if I uttered a sound.

  But that incident was nothing compared to the one I witnessed this morning.

  Diary, it will take everything I have in my body and soul to put this to paper. My end will be abrupt, because after I make this entry, I will need to bathe and have a glass of sherry. I hope and pray my nights will be the same after seeing the unimaginable display that I saw today.

  I knew this morning was already going to be particularly difficult. Aldo was hosting a summit of business leaders, several of which I’d heard him make mention as being—

  The intercom buzzed next to Marcel, immediately followed by Nicky’s grating voice. “When the hell is he going to be here?”

  Marcel touched the button. “We spoke four hours ago; he was going to leave shortly thereafter. He should be here any time.”

  “Call him.”

  “That makes you look desperate.”

  “Don’t fucking tell me what makes me look desperate!” The intercom clicked off and on two times. “My head is still pounding from the damned narcotics you loaded me up with, and if I’m desperate for anything it’s to get this over with and get your irritating ass out of my house.”

  Marcel grinned, seeing a loose parallel between Nicky and this Aldo sicko he’d been literally sucked into reading about for the past two hours. “Nicky, I can leave now if you like.”

  The intercom clicked on again; Marcel could hear an American movie playing in the background, Gary Cooper’s overdone gangster accent bleeding through. “Just buzz me when he gets here.”

  Marcel was tapping a cigarette from his pack when the intercom buzzed again.

  “Is Napoleon down there?”

  “Haven’t seen him,” Marcel answered, rubbing the dog between his ears.

  “Bring him up when you see him.”

  Marcel lit the cigarette and patted the Doberman. “You don’t want to go up there any more than I do, do you?” He lifted the diary from his chest, resuming the February entry.

  This morning was already going to be particularly difficult. Aldo was hosting a summit of business leaders, several of which I’d heard him make mention as being hostile to his grand visions, whatever that might be. The girls and I worked very hard to make sure everything was perfect, each of us arriving in the middle of the night to prepare the breakfast buffet and to get the place settings arranged just as Aldo wanted them. He was crazed as he deliberated over who should sit next to who, often remembering an obscure detail about two seat-mates and then making us hurriedly rearrange everything so they could avoid one another.

  There were eleven men, several of whom I had heard of, especially because of companies and products that were named after them. They feasted before their meetings began, when we were told to leave. Some of the girls smoked in the cupboard by the kitchen, but when I began to hear Aldo yelling I went back to the access door, pushing it open just enough so I could watch.

  Aldo sounded almost like the charismatic preacher I saw in a forbidden American movie, although the content of which he spoke was unlike anything a preacher might say. I’d heard him on many occasions decry Jews, their heritage, and their ways. He was insulting me and my blood, although I’ve never taken such insults personally. When you’ve heard something your entire life, you can choose to be offended or you can choose to let it pass. I feel much more peaceful for letting it go.

  He became louder and more animated, speaking of how the only good Jew was a dead Jew. His picture show he’d so meticulously rehearsed began to play. It displayed cartoons of Jews, their faces and bodies grotesque caricatures. This was no surprise because such images were rife on posters and even in the newspaper.

  But what came next literally made me lose my stomach.

  Slides displaying bodies of corpses, some of them mutilated. There was a picture of two smiling boys, holding rifles and, hung between the two of them a dead, naked man, presumably Jewish. They were smiling like triumphant hunters on African safari. Aldo gesticulated at each slide, whipping the men (some of them) into a frenzy as his rage and fervor grew to a fever pitch. I could see the same arousal he sometimes displayed with me bleeding through.

  But one image…which I will never forget for all my days…showed an infant…oh diary…the infant’s head had been…I can’t even put the words to paper…it was the worst thing I have even seen or even thought possible.

  The infant’s head…

  I cannot write it. God has blessed me with enough decorum not to repeat such a thing.

  So as Aldo tapped his stick on the screen, proudly yelling that this was the finest example of a Jew he’d ever seen, he opened his arms widely, as if accepting rays of sun on a frigid day.

  Some of the men clapped, others, to their slight credit, seemed unnerved.

  But Aldo was in ecstasy, his fit of wrath coming back as he pounded the long table so hard that the polished silver clattered to the floor. He finished with a flourish as I ran to the bathroom and heaved.

  I’ve learned of God in heaven and Satan in hell, diary. God lives with me day to day, helping me endure my life and assuaging the guilt over my actions. But today, diary, Satan was alive and well in that banquet room. His emissary, who has raped me time and time again (though have I done enough to stop it?) was doing his bidding in fine fashion.

  I fear Aldo is in love with me, and the greatest fear of my life is what he will do to me if he finds out who I truly am.

  Marcel closed the diary and crushed out his cigarette. The clock ticked as he stared at the book, his hand lingering on the tattered fabric cover. He touched two fingers to his neck, feeling his pulse. It was faster than normal. No surprise. He closed his eyes for several moments, doing his best to focus on what had to be done here today.

  Marcel stood and walked through the main foyer. He rewrapped the diary, hiding it again. Nicky had no idea it was here. Marcel felt sickened to his very core by what he had just read. He was half-Jewish, on his mother’s side, but even had he not been, the level of this Aldo’s despicably intense hate against human beings shook Marcel’s deepest foundations.

  And he couldn’t help but draw some level of parallel to Nicky Arnaud.

  The intercom buzzed again from the front gate. A voice crackled through.

  Jean had arrived.

  With a clap of his hands Marcel sent Napoleon up the stairs. He removed his pistol, making certain he had a round seated and ready to go.

  Because who knew what in the hell Nicky had planned for Jean Jenois?

  The sun was setting over the Arnaud compound when the electric gate opened, allowing Jean to make his way up the drive that wended through an array of mostly dormant flora. The pink and white mansion screamed new money, towering over the valley and impossible to miss. Two cars were parked in front of the mansion and, as always when Jean visited Nicky, he was curious, and cautious, about how he might find the mobster.

  Marcel met Jean at the top of the front steps. Jean shrugged as he climbed th
e expansive entry. “What’s the urgency all about?”

  “Just listen carefully and be flexible,” Marcel answered.

  They entered through the front door of the mansion, going beneath the twin spiral staircases, through the kitchen. Nicky’s Doberman, who had been watching from the top of the stairs, bounded down. Marcel stopped him, petting the dog and telling him to stay. He turned and opened an undersized pine door that led down a set of narrow stone stairs, beckoning Jean to follow. Jean felt the air get colder as they descended, watching as the daylight was replaced by stark yellow light from single bulbs on the basement’s ceiling. At the bottom of the stairs, after going around an oddly curved stone wall, Jean realized the majority of the basement was occupied by a wine cellar. It was an enormous cavern cut straight from the limestone earth. Five rows, each eight feet tall and forty feet deep, were filled with dusty bottles of wine and champagne. Jean paused, looking at one of the bottles closest to the stairs, a 1961 Château Cheval Blanc. His eyes widened when he noticed there were eleven more just like it on the deep shelf below.

  Marcel turned and gestured. “He’s back here.”

  They passed through the center aisle, walking through another door into a smaller chamber. Behind that chamber was a giant steel door, open, leading to a vault built directly under the house. Nicky was in the vault, bathed in a purplish light. The bags under his eyes were thicker, more puffy than usual. There was a colossal pistol in his hand.

  “Well, well, well. Jean Jenois. So glad you could make it,” Nicky said without a trace of warmth, barely glancing up at Jean. He ejected the cartridge from the pistol’s grip, revealing long and fat rounds that Jean correctly guessed as fifty-caliber. “Ever seen a fifty-cal in pistol form?”