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

  “Quiet, Pierre, quiet. Yes, you now have the scars from the burns, but you shall live. They’ll be your brands of atonement for your misdeeds. A few weeks in the hospital coated in Vaseline and, other than the scars, you’ll be good as new.”

  Pierre’s eyes were wide, unbelieving. His screams ceased.

  “So tell us, Pierre. Now that you have paid your thieving debt, tell us where the money is. Tell us how to get it.”

  Through all his pain, Pierre maintained his wits. His eyes were narrowed. “I don’t believe you,” he croaked.

  Leon took a step toward Pierre, glowering. Nicky waved him off. “You tell me right now,” Nicky said reasonably, “where every single euro, dollar, kroner, and pound is hidden, and I will see to it that you are hurt no more.”

  Pierre swallowed. “Before I left, when you and I were young, you were always crazy, Nicky. Seeing you acting this way…being reasonable…it doesn’t compute.”

  Nicky looked at his partners and chuckled. “I couldn’t have ascended to the top if I didn’t know how to temper my feelings occasionally, especially when thirty million is being bandied about.” His placid face hardened. “But if you don’t start talking right now, I’m going to kill you myself and find the money the hard way.”

  It took five minutes of explanation. Marcel smoked and listened, remaining on the stool. When Pierre was done explaining, Nicky looked over at Marcel.

  Yes, Nicky, Marcel said with his eyes. He just told you the truth.

  Nicky turned back to Pierre, patting the man’s cheek affectionately. He nodded to Bruno and Leon; they clamped their hands over his thin arms, wrenching them to his side. Nicky pulled the longest Sabatier knife from the cutting block island on the far side of the kitchen. He walked back to Pierre, twisting the knife in the sparse light.

  “Pierre, did you actually, honestly, truly think I would let you live?”

  Pierre screamed again, a deep, agonizing scream as Nicky placed the tip of the long knife on his navel. Nicky waited for the screaming to cease, then pushed the long blade in so slowly that the sound of flesh and organs ripping were audible to everyone present. After the knife reached its hilt, Nicky pulled it out quickly, watching as volumes of blood spilled from the man as if a faucet had been turned on.

  “You can let him go now,” Nicky said dismissively. “Show’s over.”

  Mercifully unconscious again, Pierre slumped and fell lifelessly to the floor.

  Nicky eyed Marcel as he stepped to the pantry, opening the door as he might open a present on Christmas morning. He murmured a few consoling words as he stepped inside. Marcel closed his eyes when he heard the scream; he massaged his temples when he heard the slap.

  Ten minutes later, as Nicky was finishing his vile act with Pierre’s wife, Marcel smoked in the kitchen, trying to block out the sounds. Pierre’s body lay between the island and the long counter, a crimson pool of sticky blood surrounding his battered, charred body. Marcel’s eyes went from Pierre to the profile of Bruno standing in the entryway. He was rubbing himself through his pants, turned on by the atrocity taking place in the next room. Leon was out of sight, probably next to his cousin, getting a front row view.

  Nicky Arnaud, the high boss of Les Glaives du Peuple, was out of control. He’d always been foolish, but his instability had grown with his power, tilting to insanity when he had ascended to the throne three years earlier. Marcel Cherbourg was no saint, but there was a way to do things without the collateral damage Nicky Arnaud always seemed to create. A way to do things that ensured a future without rivals. A way to do things while maintaining an air of sanity.

  But Marcel was also a pragmatist.

  He stepped out to the rear porch for some air. There would come a time when he might be able to do something, but tonight was not the night.

  There came another scream as Nicky invited his cousin to join in the fun.

  “Bastards,” Marcel whispered to the night, pulling the door shut in his search for peace.

  ***

  Saturday, October 31 – Frankfurt, Germany

  The Bischen was a small restaurant specializing in freshly-baked bread and strong, dark coffee in the German style. Gage was there early, picking his way through a hunk of spiced bread, scanning the headlines of the Allgemeine. He’d had his standard two cups of coffee and switched to tap water to keep his nerves in check. Fashionably late and typically French, Jean Jenois breezed in twenty minutes after their scheduled meeting time, his flowing black hair still damp from his morning shower. He was well turned out in a thin-cut charcoal suit, wide-open collar, and black alligator shoes. Gage knew who Jean worked for, but always wondered where he acquired his real money. He certainly didn’t get it in the employ of the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, or DGSE, as it is known worldwide.

  “Herr Hartline, so good to see you,” Jean said, using nearly unaccented German and wearing a look of amusement that always annoyed Gage to no end. Without being overt, it was as if Jean took perverse delight in Gage’s struggles. But the only way he would have known about them is if he had looked into Gage’s personal affairs, something he could easily do if he wanted. Or maybe Gage was simply being paranoid.

  Gage nodded to Jean, motioning to the waitress.

  “Coffee with heavy milk,” Jean said dismissively. “We’ll be outside.”

  The waitress sauntered away as Jean led Gage to a table on the sunny sidewalk. “Let’s enjoy the sun while we can, yes?” Jean’s voice was baritone and silky smooth. He lit a cigarette, humming to himself as he briefly looked away, a smile appearing as if a delicious memory had flitted through his mind. After a moment he focused on his occasional contractor. “Gage, my old friend…you look like shit.”

  Gage slipped on his sunglasses, feeling a twinge of pain behind his eyes. He rubbed his blond stubble which had recently become flecked with a few burgeoning gray whiskers. “This is what not sleeping does to you.”

  Jean pushed the cigarettes across the table. He placed the Zippo on top. “Soins pour une cigarette?”

  “No thanks,” Gage said, understanding enough of the French and frowning at the temptation.

  “How long has it been?” Jean asked.

  “Not long enough.” Gage had kicked cigarettes and alcohol nearly three years before, shortly after the incident at Crete. The debilitating, migraine-like headaches had thankfully abated somewhat after the excising of his bad habits. They still occurred, but not nearly as often.

  Jean pulled the cigarettes back, spinning them on the table. “So, I hear our friends at the meeting down in Vienna passed on giving you the insertion job.”

  This surprised Gage but, knowing Jean might be shaking the bushes, he remained impassive.

  “You didn’t think I would know that?”

  Gage shrugged.

  Jean waved his hand as if he were shooing a fly. “I know you cannot respond. Typical Slavs. I don’t think they ever intended to even do what they discussed with you. They’re just updating their files, keeping a list of who to call when they really do need someone. They’re nearly as blunt as a German trying to give advice. People like you come and go so damned much that even the world’s best intelligence agencies can’t keep up. They paid you to come, I hope.”

  Still, Gage just stared at Jean.

  A smirk grew on Jean’s face. “You know Renaldo Tristan? From Paris? Weapons man, tall with the cauliflowered ear…the one who got kicked out of GIGN for—”

  “I know who he is,” Gage said, cutting him off, having heard about the former French special ops man’s exploits ad nauseam.

  Jean dragged on his cigarette extravagantly, clearly enjoying the moment. He spoke as the smoke spilled from his mouth. “Renaldo asked for five-k, euro, for the day trip. They paid him, no questions.”

  Gage pulled in a long breath through his nose, angered at himself for not asking the same. He wasn’t the type to fret over something that was past, willing himself to allow it to burn into his brain so as
not to make the same mistake again. Using all his discipline, he forced his face to show no reaction other than irritation at this delay. “So what did you want to talk to me about? Maybe I should have charged you for this meet?”

  Jean laughed, motioning to Gage’s empty glass of water. “I will pay for your water, yes?” The waitress placed Jean’s coffee before him, nodding when he informed her there would be nothing else. They both watched her walk away.

  “You are aware of the many U.S. military that are leaving Germany? They call it ‘drawdown’.”

  Gage nodded. “Not a part of our mission anymore.”

  “I guess you will take your imperialism to the Middle East now, oui?”

  A fake smile with his mouth only was Gage’s reply.

  “Anyway, there is one area we are particularly interested in, around the Westend quarter here in Frankfurt. The government is moving many of their organizations into these newly vacant buildings, since they are already well suited for bureaucratic service.” Jean paused, waiting for a response.

  “Okay,” Gage said, wanting him to get on with it. If he had any beef with the French, it was their slow pace.

  “While France and Germany are fellow members of the EU, allies, and mostly friendly trading partners, there are certain aspects of business between the countries where a certain level of competitiveness is involved. One area from which there is much to learn, where a gain could be most beneficial to my government, is from the Deutsch Customs office, the Hauptzollamt.”

  Gage took a sip of water, eyeing Jean. “Customs.” Oh boy…you’re really in the big-time now, Gage.

  “Yes, just Customs. Not really sexy, but important nonetheless. They certainly wouldn’t want their communications compromised, but it’s not so sensitive that they will sweep the building. It will simply be another office loaded with over-holidayed German civil servants, living off the fifty-percent tax they levy on their people.”

  “And I take it you want to see and hear what they are doing?”

  Jean nodded with closed eyes. “Seeing is not necessary. We simply want to be able to hear, and only in the executive offices, and the board room of course. A most simple task.”

  “But sensitive enough that you’re using a dissociated operative like me.”

  Jean tapped his cigarette. “Touché. If you get caught, we don’t know you. Of course.”

  “Go on.”

  “We’ll provide the hardware. It must be done imminently. They are due to sign for the building next week.” Jean cocked a finely plucked eyebrow, waiting.

  What was just proposed was a basic job, yet risky. If Gage were to get caught, his future in the business would be in jeopardy. No more work in the European professional community, and near-certain deportation. Maybe even some jail time. Although he wasn’t crazy about Jean, a man in Gage’s profession couldn’t rat out his employer. To do so would not only get him black-listed, but it would be a compromise of professional ethics. If he took this job, he knew he would be on his own, ready to fall on the sword. Plenty of reason to walk away right now. On the other hand he needed the money, badly, and in three weeks that greedy bastard Ernst would want his fifteen-hundred euro. Gage adjusted his sunglasses, rubbing his temples with his fingers. There was no real choice to be made—he had to accept the risk.

  “I should be able to do it over the weekend.” He held up a finger as Jean was about to speak. “For twenty-thousand, in euro, no exceptions.”

  Jean’s mouth widened, his long face exposing narrow, catlike teeth framed inside the dyed black goatee. “You have a good mind, Gage. A sharp one. This is precisely the number we’re prepared to compensate, but in dollars. Not euro.”

  Gage slid his chair back, shaking his head as Jean took a final drag on the now short cigarette. “Sorry, Jean. It’s my figure, or nothing. A job like this, as simple as it sounds, could be deeply laden with pitfalls. Night watchmen, cameras…whatever. If I get caught, I’m out of work for everyone in the EU. Blacklisted.” He jabbed a finger at the Frenchman. “And that’s why you’re having it done at arm’s length, with a guy like me.”

  “But you need the money.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yeah, Jean, I do.” Bastard! He has checked on me, Gage knew instantly. He tried to not appear surprised that Jean would know such a thing.

  Jean crushed his cigarette out and stood, his head shrouded in smoke and rich, honey-colored morning sun. “Merci, Gage. I appreciate your taking the time to meet me and, as always, I enjoyed your company. I guess I’ll just go see the man known as The Glaswegian, the icy one who did that quiet business on those two kidnappers in Hannover not too long ago. He works relatively cheap, and does a decent enough job from all I hear.”

  Gage balled his fists in his lap, grinding his teeth as he closed his eyes. A full-blown headache was now forcing its way into his head like an unwelcome visitor.

  “Ciao,” Jean said while sliding ten euro under the ashtray. He held his overcoat over his arm, walking away without a trace of hesitation.

  Gage opened his eyes when Jean was about to turn the corner. The Frenchman didn’t look back.

  Gage stood, angry with himself.

  Gage trotted after the DGSE agent.

  Gage took the job.

  And Jean, a very thorough man, knew he would. In the end, he agreed to pay in euro, but only after converting it from dollars.

  Chapter 2

  Gage stepped into the area behind his flat and studied the slip of paper, memorizing it and repeating its contents in a whisper three times before setting it aflame. Once the paper singed his finger, he dropped it into the damp alcove leading to the building’s basement, watching to confirm its destruction. The cold wind slapped Gage in the face as he stepped from behind the building, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of the warm pea coat. A black stocking cap was pulled down over his head, making him look like nearly any other German heading to the Bad Homburg S-bahn station on bustling Daimlerstrasse. October was hit or miss in Germany; this one had been cold from the get-go. The trees had shed their leaves; the few that remained were on the ground, blowing by Gage’s boots as he walked.

  He boarded the S5 line for the fifteen-minute trek into the center of Frankfurt, sitting alone and enjoying the fact that the train wasn’t extremely crowded, most likely because it was a slate-gray Saturday afternoon and people were riding out the cold and gloomy day in the comfort of their homes. The few people that were on the train were quiet, keeping to themselves like most Germans do.

  Gage was permitted to legally live in Germany on a work visa. His “boss”, Peter Ernst, was nothing more than the profiteer of a false front, collecting 1,500 euro monthly from hundreds of foreigners, giving them everything they needed to maintain their work status and not be deported. He likely had everyone from actors to professional hit men on his payroll, doing whatever it was he did to keep the Standesamt off their asses and out of his records. Frankfurt had been the ideal choice for Gage, although he would have preferred London because he had more acquaintances there. The central European location, the fact that he was fully fluent in German, the excellent airport, and the lower cost of living cemented Frankfurt as his ideal home base.

  Now if I could just make some money, I might actually feel good about myself, Gage ruefully thought. The walls of the tiled tunnel shot by as Gage again pondered the alternative of “wet” jobs. He could easily make more money—much more—if he was willing to kill or maim. Like an experienced skydiver who has lost his balls, Gage could put himself in the door of that airplane but he could no longer bring himself to jump. Killing, wounding…the very thought awakened too many horrid memories. Flustered, he tried to interrupt his brooding pattern of thought, thinking back to the rich days, back when it all began. Before the headaches. Before the sunglasses at nighttime. Before the nightmares that shrouded his sleep.

  Before Crete. Always Crete. Fucking Crete.

  Stop it…old days. Take it back to the old days. The good days.<
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  As a young soldier, Gage Hartline, his Christian name Matthew Schoenfeld, had been a commander’s dream. He’d aced nearly everything he was ever tasked with, making sergeant in only two short years. Shortly thereafter, like all young sergeants with clean records and test scores of a certain level, Gage was required to attend a Special Forces seminar. It was there, in a bland Army auditorium, that a green beret-wearing master sergeant painted a sunny picture of attaining such an elite status. One-and-a-half years of intense operational training was all it took, followed by the world’s best language school. The master sergeant talked about the unique weaponry, the specialized tactics. He showed videos of improvised demolitions. He told tales about makeshift medical procedures that would make a surgeon jealous. A well-practiced storyteller, the statuesque master sergeant made serving in Special Forces sound like a daily adventure. And then he dropped the bomb: the Special Forces selection program would weed out all non-hackers in a matter of months—with a ninety-five percent failure rate.

  Ninety-five percent.

  That was all it took to entice Gage; he loved being up against the odds, and he knew his new life’s goal would be to finish at the top of that five percent—the elite of the elite.

  Gage did everything he could to prepare for the initial selection process: a three-week hell course intended to eliminate the pretenders before the real carnage even began. He marched day and night, preparing himself for days without sleep. Knowing he wouldn’t receive sufficient nourishment during school, Gage packed on as much lean muscle as he could, choosing a high-protein diet as he went through his grueling preparations. The selection and assessment course wiped out nearly seventy percent of the candidates right off the bat, leaving only thirty percent for the actual schooling. It had been hell. Straight hell.