Jean’s eyes refocused upon hearing this; they flicked from Henri to the high-definition screens. “Play it.” They sat in silence as the video showed three people emerge from the stairwell at the Frankfurt U-bahn’s Leipziger Strasse stop, the sign clearly in focus. Jean had been there before, but was not very familiar with the area. As always, Henri had done a good job of editing the video to display each trip Gage had made. Both times, he exited the stairwell, walked straight ahead for what appeared to be half a block before turning left down a narrow street. His pack was obviously stuffed, evidenced by the bulge and the amount of lean he had in his stride.
“What street is that?” Jean asked, suddenly panicked with excitement.
“It’s not named,” Henri said, expecting the question. “It’s an alley.” He removed one of the familiar envelopes that had been around far longer than Jean or Henri had even been on the earth. It was marked “eyes only”, with Jean’s name on it and the familiar wax seal on the back.
“I’ve got satellite imaging, the map and, the list of businesses and residences on both sides of the alleyway.” Henri winked at him. “It’s parallel to Am Weingarten.”
Jean clapped him on his well-cushioned back and stood. Just as he was about to leave, he froze. “Do you have a theory on where he was going? Did you scan the businesses and residences?”
“I’m a computer geek, Jean. I left that part for you.”
“Is there any more video?”
Henri shook his head. “Not that exists. If there was, I would have found it.”
Jean didn’t thank him. He bolted from the building and jumped in his car, spinning tires, headed northwest.
***
Sorgi tapped in the final keystroke, Ellis leaning over his shoulder. The computer took a few seconds before the eight individuals popped up. They were the sum total of every individual ever to serve in the U.S. Army having a last name that was a variation of Schoenfeld. There was only one with a first name that started with an M and, after glancing at Captain Ellis, Sorgi clicked it. The computer chewed on it for a moment, and then a full and detailed record popped up.
Matthew Sloan Schoenfeld joined the U.S. Army in October of 1989, starting his training at Fort Sill, in Oklahoma. Ellis was reading it line by line, but Sorgi had already gone to the end, pointing to a killed-in-action date in 1994. Ellis waved him off with a frown. He wanted to take it all in, digesting it as one would a good meal. Or a fine wine.
After training at Fort Sill, where he graduated with honors, Schoenfeld attended Airborne School at Fort Benning, then on to Germany. He was stationed in Giessen, Germany, making sergeant in only two years—fast, but not unheard-of. In early 1993, Schoenfeld transitioned to Fort Bragg, stationed at 18th Corps Artillery, shortly afterward listed as Special Forces candidate. Eighteen months later, the record showed him as TDY, temporary duty, with the Fourth Special Forces Group, assigned to the United Nations Peacekeeping Force in Bosnia. The next line was the one Sorgi had pointed to, and displayed something that always made Ellis sad to read, no matter who the person was: Killed in Action, Bosnia, October 20th, 1994. Artillery barrage was listed as the cause.
Ellis pulled up a chair and stared at the picture of Schoenfeld as a young trainee. The shaved head, the thin face, the typical sleep-deprivation dark circles under the youthful eyes. There was a smaller picture shown, probably taken from his ID card when he was promoted to sergeant. He had Sorgi click it as he ran back to his office to get the file. When he returned, he held the Hartline passport picture to the screen, comparing the two men’s faces.
Sorgi saw the resemblance in seconds; Ellis compared everything: forehead, eyebrows, eyes, chin, ear levels. When he finished, he straightened, making eye contact with Sorgi. They both nodded. Matthew Sloan Schoenfeld was now Gage Nils Hartline.
They went through each tab of the file, including basic medical records and background info, with Sorgi printing every shred of information that existed on Schoenfeld. Ellis instructed Sorgi to pull Schoenfeld’s background from any other sources that might exist, and to call every childhood friend, family member, and teacher that he could find. He also instructed him to cross reference Schoenfeld’s duty stations with any soldiers who might still be in the Army and currently stationed in Germany.
“I’m going digging in these papers,” Ellis said, hefting each of Schoenfeld’s evaluation reports. “And when you’re done I’m gonna have a chat with some of the fellas who served with him.”
“Should we tell the boss, so he can talk to the polizei?” Sorgi asked.
Ellis pondered it for a moment, then leaned close to Sorgi’s ear. “Let’s just keep it between us for now.” He put a finger to his lips and Sorgi gave a miniature salute.
They were going to figure this one out alone.
***
Near Karlsruhe, Germany
The ICE train’s ride was as smooth as an old Cadillac’s on a freshly paved road. People milled about the train car, walking to and fro, stretching their legs. The restrooms were in the next car, getting some usage. There was a dining car three cars ahead. People would bring their coffee back. Drink it. Visit the restroom. A group of older women sat around a table at the head of the car, speaking about plans for their visit to Paris. A minor argument erupted over whether or not the Mona Lisa was worth all the hubbub. Had Gage been paying attention, he would have told them to skip Mona and see the rest of the Louvre, or better yet, some of the other museums in the grand city. But Gage wasn’t paying attention.
With a sucking sound, the door slid open from the car ahead. There he was—rumpled blue uniform. Dour look on his face. The attendant. Gage didn’t even tense when he saw him; he was well-briefed on what to expect and more than confident in his identification. Making him feel even more secure, the news stories about the wanted murder suspect from Frankfurt had ceased altogether. Kenny wanted to help by questioning some friends in intelligence, but Gage wouldn’t allow it. There was no point in adding a potential leak to this operation. Besides, he trusted Colonel Hunter and knew he would spread just enough disinformation to turn the investigation’s attention to the States. In addition to all that, his words to the policeman, and the fact he left him unharmed, had to count for something. Gage sipped his water as the attendant stopped before him.
“Karte, bitte.”
Gage pulled the printed sheet of paper from the seat back in front of him, unfolded it and handed it to the man. The attendant looked it over before asking Gage to see his identification. From his bag, Gage produced a German passport showing his home as just outside of Munich, in Zorneding. Kenny Mars had provided it for him. Apparently, his team had a suitcase full of them in the event they needed to perform an op inside the border. Gage’s hair had grown half an inch, and on his face he had grown a short beard to match the picture. Kenny had visited the pharmacy section of the PX for Gage; all of his hair had been dyed a dark brown and his skin was now darker thanks to tanning lotion. A few light smudges of dark makeup under Gage’s eyes aged him by ten years. Unless the attendant was studying the picture under a magnifying glass, he wouldn’t see a difference in Gage and the man in the passport. The attendant gave the passport a cursory glance and then, from a lanyard, the man produced a stamp and squeezed the impression on Gage’s paper, moving on to the person behind Gage without another glance.
Gage slowed his breathing, forcing himself to relax. As had been happening with regularity over the last week, Gage could hear Monika, speaking to him with her unique Saarland accent. She was reading from the 1938 diary, passages Gage would never, for the rest of his years (or days), forget:
I’ve had no period for two months. No period and unexplained sickness! It’s all I can do to stomach working while feeling green, but to know the unthinkable…to know I am carrying his child. It could be no other person’s; unfortunately he was my one and only. I don’t know what else I can bear, diary. I hide my heritage like an embarrassing scar. I’ve lost my family. I put on a happy face and w
ork twelve hours, making up trite excuses when I have to go and secretly vomit in the rose garden, and now I have to hide a coming child, fathered by a man who would certainly want it immediately killed.
Some of the girls here, either by the male servants or the gentry, have become pregnant over the years. But to them, like they might take care of an aching tooth, they go down to those butchers in Karlshorst…
I will not do this.
He leaned back in the seat, listening to Monika saying the words as she alternated her vision from the diary to him, her eyes rimmed with tears. Greta and Monika: two tragic souls, ripped away from those who loved them.
His hand moved to his shoulder, rubbing it, rubbing the hidden tattoo of Themis, Goddess of Justice. He let it linger there a moment.
There were no large suitcases accompanying Gage. Unlike the other travelers, there was no iPod in his ears, no laptop before him. He had not purchased a newspaper; he didn’t have a paperback. Instead, he sat ramrod straight in his 2nd class seat, staring out the window at the gray sky and passing farmland. That’s where the blankness ended. In his mind, Gage’s thoughts moved at Internet speed, going over scenarios and planning for each and every contingency. Beneath his feet was his bag; it contained his implements.
His destination was Metz. His mission was clear.
Gage clenched his powerful hands shut, staring down at them. On his left hand, there was a scar from Venezuela. The fingernail of his right thumb was gnarled from an incident in Albania. He twisted his fists over, looking at the knuckles. What scars might he take away from France? It didn’t matter. He had but one critical task in this mission. Gage Hartline was going to find the men responsible for Monika’s death, and kill them. He was going to make their demise violent, and painful. In deference to Colonel Hunter’s recommendation, Gage planned to make his adversaries beg for the mercy of death.
For a scant moment he allowed himself to picture, not only how he was going to perform his mission, but exactly what spiteful actions he was going to perform on the mobsters.
And for that scant moment, Gage Hartline smiled.
In his mind he spoke to Monika, and to Greta Dreisbach: Rest in peace, ladies, justice is coming.
***
Frankfurt, Germany
His Mercedes parked illegally on a dilapidated, grease-stained sidewalk, Jean jumped out and ran to the mouth of the alleyway. He stared into the narrow opening a long moment, turning back to the U-bahn stop at Leipziger Strasse and glancing at Henri’s map. Yes, he was in the right place. This is the alleyway Gage took in the video.
Slow down, Jean. Take your time. Millions are at stake. He took a deep breath, breathing through his long nose until he felt the tension fall from his shoulders. Finally, in his typical manner when he needed to calm himself, Jean lit a cigarette, clamping it in his mouth as the northern wind pushed the smoke back over his face and toward the Main River.
The clouds were low and gauzy, sliding across the sky. They licked at the top of the tall buildings in the near distance. A swirling mist dampened Jean’s face, forcing him to cup the cigarette in his hand and feel the burn from the cherry at the tip.
He entered the alleyway. It was dark and dank. Long and narrow. The center was marked by the crown of the road, probably built on a rise centuries before so the rain would carry out the trash and filth. And while Germany is known as a tidy country, this particular alleyway belied that claim to fame. On his left, Jean saw the back of a Chinese restaurant. He smelled their garbage. To the right was the back of an apartment building, the rusty fire escape above his head. There was an apron factory, a low-rent law firm, seven warehouses that appeared to be legitimate businesses, two additional buildings that housed flats, and a neighborhood pub at the end.
Jean walked the alley, glancing in each window, pulling on doors. He smoked the cigarette, trying to think like Gage Hartline. Did he deposit his treasure in one of these buildings? Did he use the alleyway as a short cut? Did he purposefully try to leave a confusing trail?
No, the diaries were close by. Henri had marked video of Gage coming and going both times. Each time Gage turned into the alleyway and was back out within a few minutes. Jean was now at the other end of the alleyway. He made a right on Wurmbachstrasse and entered the pub. It was just before lunch.
Two old men labored to crank their arthritic necks around to look at the soaked Frenchman with the mane of black hair. Seeing that he didn’t have breasts, they quickly lost interest, choosing to stare into their pilsner instead.
The bartender, probably a septuagenarian himself, slid an oily menu to a spot at the end of the bar. “Speisekarte?” he asked, more tired than friendly.
“Ein Kaffe, bitte,” Jean requested with a fake smile. He used his pinky finger to move the tainted menu away from his spot. The man poured the coffee, sliding two sugar packets and a small container of cream in front of Jean. He turned away and went back to his newspaper.
“Excuse me,” Jean asked, using his best German.
The bartender kept his eyes in his newspaper, replying gruffly. “Yeah?”
“Have you been located here for a long time? Do you know the area well?”
“Purchased the bar from the former owner in sixty-three; been here ever since.”
Jean wished the rude old fart would turn to face him. He didn’t like to speak to someone’s back. He willed himself to remain calm and continued. “There is an alleyway that runs behind your bar, bounded on both sides by many businesses, including several warehouses.”
“You’re observant,” the man said, licking his finger and flipping the page.
Jean smoothed his hair. “My sister has passed away and had put many of our parents’ antiques in storage. We’ve narrowed it down to one of the businesses on each side of the alleyway, but haven’t been able to find any that publicly offer storage. Do you know any of the owners?”
The man closed the paper and turned. “Most of the warehouses and businesses in this area went out of business after the euro changeover. The economy has come back, but this area has yet to.” He sipped from a mug; Jean could see the honey colored pilsner inside. The man’s liver was probably soaked every day well before lunch.
The bartender lifted the mug, gesturing to the street. “Maybe some of the people in the warehouses make extra money by renting out space. But if they do, I don’t know about it.” He lifted his paper with his free hand. “Or care.”
Jean sipped his coffee. “It could take me some time to figure it out. Do you have any guesses as to which one I should begin with?”
The old man leaned forward. “No, I don’t. And unless you want something pricier than coffee, I’d like to finish my paper.”
Jean stared at the crotchety silverback a moment, finally digging a crumpled ten euro bill and dropping it on the sticky counter. His plastic smile gone, he sloshed the coffee as he slid it back to the old man before exiting into the growing rain.
The old man turned and watched him go, eventually opening an old stir-drawer and finding the small card with the twenty euro bill wrapped around it. He unwrapped the currency and read the card, sliding the money into his pocket. He grabbed the phone, dialing the number that had been scrawled on the card. The voice mail sounded like the mechanical voice provided by the cellular provider. It picked up immediately and the old man waited for the beep. “Yeah. You came into my pub one night a few weeks or so ago and warned me there might be someone looking for a storage space nearby. Well, it happened today. A slick, smartass Frenchman, trying to hide his accent. He had a long hook nose. Just letting you know.” He hung up and sipped his beer.
Easiest twenty euro Gerhard Brüner had made in months.
And had Gage not been forced to flee, with his spare mobile phone doing him no good in his safe, he might have been forewarned about Jean’s knowledge of the neighborhood of the storage unit.
***
Two hours later, Jean Jenois sat at the fireplace table of one of his favorite Frankfurt r
estaurants. It was French and actually French-owned. In front of him was the remainder of a bottle of Louis Latour, the nub of a cigarette burning in the ashtray next to the bottle. The owner allowed Jean to smoke, but only during slow times, and only next to the fireplace where the updraft would take his toxic smoke through the roof.
Jean was leaning forward, his face pained, his head resting in both hands.
Millions of euros.
From his jacket pocket he removed the folded printout Henri had given him, flattening it on the table. The amounts paid for the tepid autobiographies were stunning.
Jean lifted his head, staring into the crackling fire.
I sent Gage into that building. Therefore the diaries are mine. He repeated it over and over in his mind, convincing himself.
With one more glance at the paper, Jean tapped the highest figure, a number just past twelve-million euro. A smile formed on his face.
As he walked from the restaurant, headed toward his bank, Jean called Henri and said, “Get me the phone numbers of the property owners near the mouth of that alley.”
Several hours later, Jean made a deal.
***
Saturday, November 14
It had taken an all-nighter to wash through all of Matthew Schoenfeld’s records before they came up with a hit they felt was meaningful enough to follow-up on. It was seven in the morning and both investigators had been operating on no sleep for well over twenty-four hours. Many superiors would have napped during the three hour drive, but that wasn’t Damien Ellis’s style. He wanted the time to think about, and process, everything he and Sorgi had uncovered about Matthew Schoenfeld.
The background checks they had run were predictable. Good kid, lost his parents and his sister when he was a teen. Quiet. Hard worker. All the things you would expect to hear about someone who had the ability to earn a coveted green beret. But it was Schoenfeld’s evaluation reports and a recommendation letter Ellis read that stuck with him.
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