The Diaries - A Gage Hartline Espionage Thriller (#1) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE DIARIES

  Amazon Edition

  ISBN 978-0-9882186-1-1

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2012 by Chuck Driskell

  Published by Autobahn Books

  Cover art by Nat Shane

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  First Edition: February, 2012

  In honor of Matthew McKeever,

  one of the finest soldiers I’ve ever known.

  No more tears now; I will think upon revenge.

  Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots

  PART ONE

  October 30

  The Discovery

  Chapter 1

  Friday, October 30 – Vienna, Austria

  The flight attendant pressed through the throng of people, yelling to those yet to be seated that there was no more space in the overhead compartments. In a shrill voice, hoarse from herding countless others before them, she instructed the passengers to walk back up and gate-check any bags that wouldn’t fit under their seat. Gage Hartline hefted his small pack, assessing its flexibility, confident he could make it conform somehow. The jet-way bounced as the grumbling passengers inched forward like sheep to a slaughter.

  Once onboard and hunched over, Gage couldn’t find a single person wearing a smile. Those that were in their seats looked at the remainder of the passengers with a degree of annoyance. It was as if they were somehow now different, now that they had their own little piece of real estate. Every few seconds, one of the new arrivals would open an overhead compartment, only to be shouted down by one of the German-speaking flight attendants. The passengers groused to one another, not sure whether to be angry with the curt flight attendants or the dolts who didn’t listen.

  Sitting on the tarmac at rainy Vienna International Airport, the Lufthansa A320 was packed to the gills: a Greyhound bus masquerading as an airliner. Gage felt his ears pop as the door was closed and sealed. The flight attendants prowled the aisles, their faces pinched as if they had been made to suck on a sour lemon, probably on their second leg of four and seeing no end in sight. He opened the seat-back magazine, thumbing idly through the pages as he awaited takeoff. Several rows in front of him and across the aisle, a middle-aged man was complaining, gesturing wildly as the flight attendant appeared to be trying to placate him. Gage perked his ears, listening to the man’s accent and foul language. He was most likely Austrian, stout with short graying hair and hambone hands. Just from his demeanor, Gage suspected the man was comfortable with violence. He was throwing a toddler-like conniption, angry that he hadn’t been upgraded before an off-duty airline employee had.

  Come on buddy, the flight’s not even two hours. Relax already.

  The flight attendant explained to the man that, no matter his frequent flier status, with his ticket class an upgrade simply wasn’t possible. Finally, she convinced the grouch to sit. Thank you. Gage went back to his magazine, doing his best to zone out a screaming child and the teenager slouched next to him smacking his gum.

  Twenty minutes later, somewhere over the Alps, amid the requisite turbulence, the angered passenger started up again. He seemed particularly upset with the one flight attendant he’d yelled at earlier. She was probably in her mid-thirties, with plain features and wearing a stressed countenance. Gage lowered the magazine to his lap and watched, feeling his frustration rising. The man’s voice began to increase in volume. People craned their necks to see what was happening. One young mother covered her toddler’s ears. Gage twisted the pages of his magazine; he began to feel his pulse affecting the sensitive nerves behind his eyes. A headache was coming—the damned headaches—and stress made the pain worse.

  Get the pilot, lady.

  The flight attendant wasn’t exactly arguing with the man, but Gage knew enough about confrontation that you don’t shake your head at someone whose blood is up. Like a little girl on the playground, she shook her head back and forth, closing her eyes for long periods. Uh-uh. Uh-uh. Uh-uh. It would have pissed Gage off too, but more concerning to him was the passenger’s beet-red face and the lunacy of the obscenities he bellowed. In a well-practiced verdict, Gage internally diagnosed the angered passenger as unstable. He had seen it too many times, especially in hostage situations. When they get to this point—the nonsensical stage—the options become narrow. Talking won’t rectify the problem, only an intervention will.

  The man was in the center seat, left side, standing hunched under the overhead compartment. Upon hearing whatever it was the flight attendant just said to him, he straightened, bumping his head. The man let out a particularly obscene curse, punching the overhead bin so hard Gage halfway expect to see an oxygen mask appear. Enraged, the man’s bulging eyes cut back to the flight attendant and he began to try to get past the person sitting between him and the aisle. Gage’s own eyes widened as he watched the fuming passenger finally climb over the lady next to him, scrambling into the aisle.

  Damn it! Get the pilot, now!

  The man was now in the flight attendant’s face, screaming like a baseball manager arguing game-ending balls and strikes. The other passengers were nervous and restless, a few of them shouting for him to sit down. Gage wondered if the European Union put air marshals on random flights like the U.S. did. If so, this flight’s marshal must have had a convenient Friday stomach bug. Another flight attendant pulled at the man’s shoulders; he shrugged her off, spinning his arm backward violently and striking her in the chest. Mouth open in shock, she slipped by him and headed toward the cockpit. Gage relaxed slightly.

  Sit still, Gage. She’s getting the pilot. Thankfully. Just let this thing ride out.

  Upon turning back to the original object of his anger, the irate passenger shoved her with both hands, knocking her onto her rear-end with a thud. The aggressive action drew cries from some of the frightened passengers. An older man had seen enough. He stood to confront the man, taking a well-aimed right cross into his lower lip, sending him flailing backward against the drink cart.

  The passengers were panicking, several of them moving forward, presumably toward the cockpit. With one final attempt at restraint, Gage gripped his armrests and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting his inner voice as he had done so many times since the incident in Crete. He could hear the infuriated man screaming, spewing out threats to anyone he made eye contact with. Gage felt himself begin to perspire. His heart was a bass drum and his fingers crinkled from his heavy breathing, the first symptom of hyperventilation.

  Don’t do it, Gage! This situation could escalate and then the authorities might wonder who the hell you really are.

  “I’ll crash this plane if I have to!” the fanatical passenger screamed.

  Gage’s inner voice lost out.

  The magazine in his lap fluttered to the floor as he bolted from his seat, over the drink cart, sending Diet Cokes splattering. The lunatic heard him coming, turning with his arm pulled back for another punch. Gage anticipated, ducking easily below the wild swing and tackling him low in the midsection. He heard the air from the man’s lungs leave him as his diaphragm muscle contracted.

  Gage’s sunglasses clattered under the seats as he grabbed a shock of graying hair from the back of the man’s head, twis
ting and lifting his own weight so the man would turn from the pain. He did.

  As smoothly as if Gage was on a mat in a gym giving a demonstration, he slipped his right arm under the man’s neck. Gage held his position by tightening his knees around the man’s torso, squeezing. More flight attendants were now on the scene, the pilots no doubt following regulations by securing the cockpit. Gage brought his mind back to the man below him. Keeping pressure with his legs, he shoved his left arm beside the man’s ear, clamping his right hand in the crook of the left elbow, giving a small squeeze and hearing the man gurgle as blood and air immediately struggled to gain passage to his brain. Gage held him that way a moment, feeling one of the flight attendants tugging at him while the passengers yelled that the man on the bottom was the aggressor.

  Gage lowered his mouth to the man’s right ear, letting the pressure release slightly. He whispered in flawless German, “Hey asshole, can you hear me?” The man nodded with some difficulty. “Good, because if you don’t do what I tell you, I’m going to crank down with my arm and crush your windpipe.”

  Gage glanced up at the crowd, focusing on the senior flight attendant, his voice as calm as if he were still sitting in his seat, reading his magazine. “Einen moment, bitte.”

  His face twisted into a livid mask as he lowered his mouth back to the passenger’s ear. “Once crushed, you’ll pass out.” He chuckled as if the prospect pleased him. “Once you’re unconscious, I’ll have the flight attendant get me one of those dull steak knives from first-class and then I’ll give you a ragged tracheotomy, making you talk through one of those little throat microphones the rest of your life.” Gage eased the choke hold again. “I’m guessing you’ll come to just about the time I’m pulling a triangular piece of cartilage from your throat while everyone around us is puking their guts out. You still with me?”

  A much more enthusiastic nod. Gage let his arm fully relax, but held it in place. His voice was low and calm. “When I let you loose, you’re going to stay where you are, and you’re going to do what the crew tells you. Verstanden? When they tell you to get up, you’re going to apologize to the flight attendants, the man you punched, and then to the passengers. And then when we land, they’re going to arrest your stupid ass, and you’re going to go very, very peacefully. You got that?”

  Gage removed his arm and heard the man sob his affirmation as he gasped for breath. The once-livid passenger rolled to his back, weeping loudly, making Gage almost feel embarrassed for him. Almost. There was no telling what was going on in his life to make him so angry over something as meaningless as a slightly wider seat.

  Gage found his sunglasses and stood, straightening his plain black shirt before he asked the flight attendant to tell the pilot that there was no remaining problem. The passengers stared at Gage, no doubt wondering how he so effortlessly controlled the situation. To a curious set of eyes, Gage was an everyday man, not the type to draw a second glance, especially with his plain clothes and concealed musculature. He typically walked with his head down, politely excusing himself if he were to bump shoulders with even the most aggressive of people. He held doors for ladies without flirting, and (usually) made it a rule to mind his own business.

  But if someone were allowed to make a closer inspection, it would reveal Gage’s strong hands, nicked and chipped from years spent in jungles and deserts. Underneath his baggy clothes was a powerful body that had been well taken care of, packed with muscles, yet lean enough to remain mobile and efficient. His only distinguishing feature was a tattoo that few knew the meaning of—but it, too, was well hidden. Everything about his appearance was well thought out—he couldn’t afford for his past to get out. Not today. Not ever.

  The cabin broke into applause as Gage ducked into the small galley, cursing himself for losing control. He removed his sunglasses, correcting a slight bend that had occurred in the commotion. An essential piece of Gage’s wardrobe, they helped him with his chronic headaches. A cousin to migraines, the throbbing head pain emanated from behind his eyes, coming and going with no warning. Gage was surprised, however, after the stressful event he’d just been part of, that the headache that had bothered him minutes before was now completely gone.

  The captain, a portly man with a trim goatee, appeared from the front of the aircraft. Gage motioned him into the privacy of the galley. The pilot objected, telling him he wanted to make sure the unruly passenger was properly secured. This time Gage spoke English, cutting his eyes with mild amusement down the aisle to the man, still lying there. “He won’t be going anywhere.”

  “How do you know?” the captain asked.

  “I’m pretty certain.” Gage placed his hand on the pilot’s shoulder and led him into the galley, his voice lowering. “I suppose you will be radioing ahead to the Frankfurt authorities.”

  The German nodded. “Yes, of course. They have already been called.”

  “I need a favor, then,” Gage said. “I need you to inform your crew that my name isn’t to be relayed to the polizei, or involved in any incident report. Give your flight attendants the credit instead.”

  Puzzlement appeared on the captain’s face. “But you are a hero. They will want to thank you for helping. From what I hear from my chief attendant, you obviously have some sort of specialized training.”

  “That’s just it. Yes, I have training, but it’s the type of thing that doesn’t need to appear in the Frankfurt Allgemeine, understand? I work undercover, oftentimes for the German government. If you were to include my name, I would have to tell them,” Gage lifted the laminated badge, reading the man’s name, “that Captain Thomas Börse didn’t do as I asked, even after I explained why. I’m certain they wouldn’t be very happy with you.”

  Captain Börse’s eyes widened a bit. “Is this a threat?”

  Gage’s tone stayed even and businesslike. “Mein Herr, I’ve seen it before. Someone like you ignores my reasonable instructions and your government, in order to punish you, goes and starts doing the little things that can make your life miserable. Things like scrutinizing your previous tax returns, or watching who you spend your time with on long overnights, you know?”

  The pilot’s lips parted and he flushed before nodding quickly. “Ah, yes…no one wants to make an enemy over what was a heroic action. I will tell my crew to take credit for his being subdued.”

  “And I will need to be off the aircraft first.”

  “I will radio ahead and tell them there was a mistake. Then I will not report the man until after the front of the aircraft has disembarked. Good enough?”

  Gage nodded.

  He gestured toward the front of the aircraft. “You can move in front of business class to the jump seat. As soon as we land in Frankfurt, we can have you off the aircraft first.” The pilot gave Gage a good-natured clap on his shoulder.

  Gage shook the man’s hand, hitching his head aft. “Just in case, you might go ahead and zip-tie the man’s hands, but I seriously doubt he’ll give you any more trouble. And if he does, just come get me.”

  The German captain spoke to his flight attendants before one of them led Gage to the jump seat. Gage accepted a bottle of mineral water from the beaming lady before calming himself with deep breaths, donning his sunglasses, and eventually taking a thirty minute nap.

  After apologizing to anyone who would listen, the man in 29B sat forward with his hands zip-tied tightly behind his back. Other than a few sniffles, he didn’t utter another sound the rest of the flight.

  ***

  Frankfurt, Germany

  Three hours later, Gage walked into his small flat, depression smacking him in the face like an abusive roommate. He stared at the darkened domicile, curling his lip and calculating the number of minutes before Monika’s visit. Unable to stomach sitting idle, he unpacked and left again, braving the cold wind for a quick walk to the neighborhood supermarkt. He lived north of Frankfurt in the town of Bad Homburg, in the lowest rent area available. At the grocery, Gage purchased just enough items for a
few days, knowing he was scheduled to discuss a possible job in the morning. In his line of work, it was best to keep stable food or only a day or two’s worth of perishable goods. Long trips, if one hoped to pay his bills, were inevitable.

  The sun was now behind the horizon, highlighting the Taunus Mountains to the west in amber coronas rimmed by a chilly, purple sky. The icy wind bit at Gage as he walked. Friday night. He studied the faces of the people on the street as he made his way back toward his flat. Fathers had an extra bounce in their step, on their way home to spend a toasty weekend with wife and kids, making cocoa and playing games and perhaps a Fussball match on television. Young couples walked hand in hand, warm with the anticipation of a sumptuous meal and a long night of adventurous lovemaking. Watching each of them, with their light gait and cheery eyes, made Gage feel all the more colder, all the more alone.

  He arrived back at his flat, glancing around with disdain at the lack of anything that made him feel truly at home. Since he had transitioned back into civilian life—at least, his version of it—he had not felt any desire, any need to celebrate life in any way. There were no pictures, no favorite books, no espresso machines; his flat was spartan, outfitted with only the items he needed to subsist.

  After stowing his purchases, still restless from the incident and again not feeling like staring at the dingy walls, Gage walked down Wiesenstrasse, using the ATM at the corner bank. He held the receipt under the street light, frowning as he looked at how much (or how little) money he had to his name. His only other money was a stack of contingency bills, five-thousand euro, hidden downtown in the storage space near the Leipziger Strasse U-bahn stop. But that was only for emergencies—dire emergencies. Locked in the safe, with the money, were his outs: a fresh passport in another name, a pistol, and a folder with detailed intelligence about the German border’s weakest points in the time of a manhunt.