“Do you mind disarming?”
Gage breathed air in through his nose, considering his options. His face was bleeding from the splinters, his ribs were now completely out of kilter after fighting with Jean. But more than anything, he was thoroughly drained.
Gage thumbed the cartridge of the Sig, allowing it to clatter to the floor. Without looking, he raked the slide, catching the hollow point nine-millimeter round as it twirled from the weapon. He tossed the round, hitting Jean in the eye, making him flinch and screw-up his face in what looked like sheer defeat.
And then Gage Hartline staggered down the hall and collapsed in a heap on the stairs.
***
Jim Sorgi, fluent in German, spent fifteen minutes calming the residents of the building who had felt the blast. Fortunately, the basement was enclosed and thickly walled, thereby muffling a great deal of the sound. But the concussion grenade’s blast was powerful, shaking the building at its foundation. After removing his coat and outer shirt, Sorgi stood at the base of the stairs by the elevator in his undershirt like a repairman might, telling the residents that a water heater had exploded and there was nothing to worry about. “Should be back up and running in an hour,” he told each tenant in his precise Hessian diction. One by one, each concerned resident went back to their apartment.
After a few brief comments, Captain Ellis gave Gage three Tylenol and had him sit in the front of the Army van to collect himself. Gage borrowed the mirror and tweezers from Ellis’s first-aid kit and began removing the splinters from his bearded face and neck.
Using the same first-aid kit, Ellis cleaned Jean’s face, applying triple-antibiotic to his abrasions and rubbing a Novocain-based gel on the man’s bleeding gums. After allowing Jean several sips from a bottle of water, he led the DGSE agent—in cuffs—outside to the van and placed him inside the rear, leaving the door open. Ellis asked Gage to step from the front seat as he rubbed his own head and eyes.
“I need some coffee, been up all night driving. Could you drink some?” he asked Gage.
Gage’s eyes went wide at the out of place question. He shrugged. “Yeah, I could drink a cup.”
“How about you, Frenchie?”
Even with his eardrums shattered, it appeared Jean understood the question. He did not answer but his lower lip did quiver.
Ellis radioed Sorgi. They secured the storage unit and left after placing Gage’s items in the back of the van. Ellis drove the Opel; Sorgi drove the van with Gage and a handcuffed Jean Jenois in the back. Jean stared out the window; he never made a sound.
They parked a few blocks away, in another alley. Ellis stepped to the window of the van, speaking to Sorgi about Jean and pointing to Sorgi’s sidearm. “If he gives you any trouble, shoot him in the head.”
Ellis led Gage around the corner to a small coffee shop, buying them both a cup—strong and dark—and then he claimed a bench on the cold street. As Ellis gulped at his coffee, Gage stared at his new friend. Puzzled, several times Gage’s mouth opened but no words escaped. Finally, after settling on a question, he asked Ellis who he was.
“My name’s Damien Ellis, I’m a soon-to-be-put-out-to-pasture captain with the Army’s C.I.D,” he answered, looking into the gray sky between the buildings, reading the clouds like a farmer pondering the coming day’s weather.
Gage took the information in without a reaction. “Are you going to arrest me?”
Ellis took a noisy sip. “How ‘bout we talk a bit first?”
“Jean Jenois,” Gage stated flatly. “He was going to kill me.”
Ellis turned to him, nodding. “Yes, he was.”
“But how did you know?” Gage asked.
“Well, that’s a pretty long story.”
Gage raised his coffee, displaying the first measure of goodwill. “This coffee feels pretty hot. And I have the time.” Ellis nodded with a grin and began to speak.
As Gage listened, stupefied, Captain Damien Ellis spoke nonstop for fifteen minutes, first quickly telling Gage about himself and Sorgi and then explaining the background, in great detail, about how he had come to know Gage/Matthew through good detective work and an incredible stroke of luck from a curious platoon sergeant with a sharp eye.
When Ellis finished, before Gage addressed what exactly would happen to him, he was extremely curious about something Ellis hadn’t mentioned. A key point. “Your story is all well and good, Captain Ellis…but how did you find me here? I was clean all the way from France—no tails whatsoever. I now know Jean had this area staked out. I understand that.” He narrowed his eyes. “But how did you find me? Were you watching him?”
Ellis took Gage’s untouched coffee and poured half into his own empty cup. “Well, when I learned about the little fire you created in Metz, their police were able to link the dead to a French mob called Les Glaives du Peuple, which I subsequently learned was headed by a diminutive psychopath named Nicholas Arnaud. He was rumored to be involved in a whole mess of murders, so me and Sorgi looked into his background and got an address from INTERPOL. Seems I got to his house near Château-Thierry just a few minutes after you left. Heck, I stayed there almost too long.”
Gage shook his head back and forth, speechless.
“Fella there said you helped him with an ant problem,” Ellis offered helpfully, making Gage snort so loud he hurt his rib.
“But you couldn’t have followed me here; I took precautions.”
Ellis’s eyes twinkled as he relished the moment. “Nope, I didn’t catch up to you until I saw Jean picking that alleyway lock, a pistol pinched between his bony legs.”
“But you said you went to the house at Château-Thierry.”
“I did. Helluva nice guy there, that Marcel. A career hood, no doubt, but I got the feeling he’s a decent enough fella. And I’m lucky I was able to run you down.” Ellis looked like he might continue, but turned the cup up, draining Gage’s half of the coffee. He glanced at the café longingly like he might go for another cup.
“So you stayed too long…” Gage said, wanting desperately to hear the rest of the story.
Ellis nodded. “Sorry. Yeah, he filled me in on some of what happened. Even let me take a bottle of seventy-eight La Mission Haut Brion,” Ellis said triumphantly. “I got it wrapped up in the front seat of the van.”
Gage blinked slowly. “But how did you find me?”
“Well, we had a long chat. I first asked about Nicky Arnaud, but Marcel said he had ‘gone away’ and was likely not coming back. I didn’t feel the need to ask any more questions about that. That’s when he told me you had helped him with an ant problem but had just left.” Ellis made eye contact with Gage, his own eyes twinkling.
“So as he told his veiled story, I realized where you were heading, especially after he told me about the one diary he had given back to you. Marcel told me Jean would stop at nothing to find you, and would kill you when he did.” Ellis’s leathery face twisted into a toothy grin. “Then he had an inspiration—he called a service that Opel provides, kinda like that OnStar we have back stateside. He called the operator and said his son had run off with his car, but he didn’t want the cops involved. He had the owner’s codes, so why wouldn’t they help him, paying customer that he is? The operator gave him updates the whole way here and he, in turn, passed them on to me.” Ellis’s face broadened with a smile. “We figured you were coming to Frankfurt, so that part was easy. Just as I was coming into the city, they tracked you right to that alley.”
Gage shifted, wincing from the pain in his ribs and the realization of how much luck, and skill, had been involved in his rescue. He extended his hand and Ellis took it. “Thanks for caring enough to stick with it.”
“That guy would have killed you. That’s what I was trying to stop. Even still, I’m glad we got here when we did. You had him beaten but it would have been bad news had you killed him.” Ellis stood and stretched. “I needed some excitement, anyway. You know how boring my job is sometimes?”
Gage grinned, wi
ncing again as his ribs ground together. “So what now?”
“Well, Marcel told me you got a little puncture wound on your side. You need to get that looked at.” He gestured to the alley. “I’ll hold that Frenchie for twenty-four hours; take him somewhere quiet, patch him up a little more. That should give you time to get clear of here.”
Never in a million years would Gage have guessed that Ellis was just going to let him go free. He struggled for words, finally stammering a response. “You’re really just going to let me walk?”
“Marcel said he had loaned you that car indefinitely, so you can drive if you like.” He grinned at his wit. “If I were you, I’d head somewhere way down south to convalesce. It’s so much easier to heal when it’s warm, don’t you think?” Ellis was chewing his tongue inside his mouth, clearly enjoying the moment.
“I don’t really know what to say.”
“Return the favor to someone else, Mister Hartline, or whoever you are now. I’ve been a real sad sack for a while, mopin’ around and feelin’ sorry for myself…but today I feel pretty doggone good. Why don’t you head off and do the same?”
“Okay, Captain Ellis.”
“And after I let this cat stare at a hotel wall for a day, I’ll let him crawl back to France after a good debriefing. Then I’ll go back to chasing barracks bullies and diesel thieves.”
“Do the authorities still think I killed Monika Brink?” Gage asked, pain flooding his mind.
“They don’t know what to think. They realized things went deeper when they learned you had no background. I heard there was a tip or two and then the search for you moved stateside, and now—at least for the French and Germans—their main objects of interest are those two men who you torched in Metz.” Ellis twisted his body to stare directly at Gage. “I know why you did what you did; at least, I think I do.”
Gage was unable to respond, but nodded his thanks.
“I really haven’t done you much good, but I think you did the world a favor, so I’m going to do all I can to clear you of all this. I think a well-written report about Nicky and the two goons in Metz—leaving out a few crucial details—should do it. My chief’ll want a commendation, so he’ll share it with the BKA, and they’ll do the same thing with the French. After letting that cop off without injuring him, you’re already pretty clean in their eyes, but you’ll be fully clear in a few days.”
The two men shook hands again and, even through the pain, Gage managed to give Ellis a small hug. After Ellis helped him load the car, he was off, heading south.
Just like Ellis suggested.
***
Ellis watched Gage drive away, waving with the pride of a father watching his son leaving for college. When the car had disappeared, he turned and walked to the olive green van, opening the rear door and eyeing the sour-looking Frenchman who was pouting like a toddler. From his pocket, Ellis produced a small digital voice recorder, waving it in front of the cuffed Frenchman’s face. He spoke loudly, like one might to an elderly person.
“This is courtesy of a man named Marcel Cherbourg in Château-Thierry. He taped you every time you ever met. Your voice is all over this thing, confessing to all kinds of nasty things that could land your skinny butt in jail for the rest of your life.”
Jean’s red eyes burned with fury as his long thin nostrils flared. Even still, he remained silent.
“So after we sit on you for a day or so, you’re going to go back to your little job with a neat and tidy story about where you been. And that man that just drove away will be long gone with a new name, so you can forget about him.”
Sorgi turned from the front seat, hitting his line on cue, but sounding every bit the part of a bad actor. “And what about us, boss?”
“Oh, we’re gonna be fine. Me and Mister Hartline are gonna become pen pals and I’m gonna send him a flash drive with this here recording on it. And if anything happens to me, or you, he’ll come back and take care of business, in more ways than one. Won’t he, Mister Jenois?”
Jean’s eyes were dull and black, staring into some faraway place reserved only for the soundly beaten.
“Won’t he, Jean?”
Jean Jenois turned to Ellis, his defeat mingled with the indignation that he had been bested by a low-level Army investigator. He muttered his response, displaying a crimson, pulpy maw with no front teeth. “Oui. Let’s just get on with it.”
Ellis winked at Sorgi, jumping into the rear seat and sitting next to Jean. As they drove to retrieve Sorgi’s car, Ellis tapped Jean’s elbow. “Now that all that’s straight, I have got to show you something, ‘cause you look like a man who would know his wines.” Ellis reached into the space between the two front seats and unwrapped the prize bottle of wine.
Tears welled in Jean Jenois’s eyes as he turned to look out the window.
Chapter 15
Tel Aviv, Israel – seven weeks later
Had he closed his eyes and reopened them, Gage might have thought he was in San Diego, with the rocky hills, the crystalline sky and the temperate breeze. Just that morning he’d exited the overnight ferry from Greece. He’d taken Ellis’s advice and spent the past seven weeks there, on Crete, convalescing. After two months his head was still completely clear and painless. He’d not had one single headache the entire time. While his side still occasionally ached, it was mostly healed, repaired by a friendly U.S. Army surgeon and arranged by a glad-to-see-him Kenny Mars.
And Gage hadn’t worn sunglasses once since his last mission, even in the brightest sunlight.
He dropped his pack from his back, stopping in the shadows of an ancient building, opening one of the diaries. He’d read all of them during his time in Crete and, when he again read the final diary, he was shocked to find the note in Monika’s handwriting, on the simple stationary of the hotel where she had perished. The note contained Liora Morgenstern’s name and last known address, in Tel Aviv. Gage didn’t know how Monika had learned it, but he had a suspicion, while he was away that fateful night, that she had done some investigating of her own. Through the use of an Internet investigation service, at the cost of just under a hundred euro, Gage learned the woman in question had moved several times, and he now stood a block from her address.
He replaced the diary, holding the note in his hand, on which he had scribbled the new address. It was lunchtime in Tel-Aviv. Small cars, most of them white, or yellow, or light blue, buzzed by, many of them running the traffic light several seconds after it turned red. Gage didn’t cross until the locals did and, once he was on the far side of the street, he turned right, walking half a block until he saw the building.
Tenement would have been a better word.
Liora Morgenstern was listed as a resident of the building, living on the third floor. It was eight stories high. Gage shook his head as he studied the building. The small patios outside of each apartment were littered with hanging clothes and refuse. On the bottom floors of the building, the peeling white paint was replaced by fresh graffiti. The parking lot contained a greater number of rusted heaps than fully functioning cars, and in the dilapidated playground on the building’s lot, numerous scrawny children played without benefit of supervision.
Gage walked into the base of the building, finding the mailboxes. Using his Boker specialized knife, he picked the simple lock of the mailbox corresponding with the address, staring at the week’s worth of bills. After confirming the name, making sure she indeed lived there, he climbed the stairs, sitting on the steps a half a story above Liora Morgenstern’s floor. He read from the International Gazette, purchased on the ferry, sitting patiently for ninety minutes.
The door finally opened.
Mostly hidden from view, Gage lowered the left corner of the paper, peering through the iron slats of the banister.
He held his breath.
Unlike what he had envisioned, the woman looked nothing like Adolf Hitler. She appeared quite a bit older than her seventy-three years, hunched over and moving with the slow, scraping pai
n of arthritis. Gage waited until she reached the bottom of the stairs, peering down through the center opening of the decrepit stairwell. He trotted down, reacquiring her as she shuffled through the parking lot. Her hair was dark, with streaks of gray, pulled back into a bun. Gage moved off to her side, staying out of her field of vision. A group of tattooed and earringed youths shouted insults at her as she momentarily disturbed their basketball game, cutting across the edge of the court and ignoring them. She crossed a street, entering a green, well-watered park. He entered the park to the right of where she had, watching her as she found a lone park bench. From the pocket of her tattered sweater, the old woman produced a handful of seed, feeding the flock of birds that probably expected her at the same time each day.
He moved in close, never drawing her gaze. Her face was lined, and tanned, and pinched. The woman’s brown eyes appeared sunken deep in their sockets. Gage imagined she hadn’t smiled in years. Pigeons stood on the bench next to her, unafraid of this tired old woman who probably couldn’t harm them if she tried.
His mind was churning, going over what he had planned to do. Suddenly, his idea of revealing to this woman the cache of the diaries seemed like a very bad idea. Gage had no way of knowing if she knew she was Hitler’s child. He seriously doubted it. But whether or not she did, Gage also doubted the woman would have the means to know what to do with such priceless texts. After crossing in front of her twice, he decided to run back to her building. He bounded up the stairs, stopping in front of her door, listening for footfalls on the stairwell. Using the tool again, he took his time, finally picking her lock after several minutes. Gage stepped inside.
Cats, everywhere. Every color. Every type. Every size. Gage estimated at least a hundred cats, living in what he would term a hovel. There was no television, no radio, no newspapers. He looked everywhere, not even finding a phone. Gage waded through the feline throng, glancing out the dingy window, seeing no sign of the woman crossing the yard.
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