The Diaries - A Gage Hartline Espionage Thriller (#1) Page 5

  Wearing his oft-used hard hat and reflective vest, Gage hopped the fence on the side street. He landed in the garden and stripped the vest and hat, dropping them under a bush with the reflective side of the vest down. From his pocket, he pulled on a pair of disposable rubber gloves and, after negotiating the pea gravel path in relative silence, Gage chose the basement entrance for its seclusion. He stepped down the mossy stairs and checked the knob, only to find a locked bar securing the heavy door. Gage reached into his bag, removing a black sheet designed to bleed no light, draping it over himself. Using a small flashlight, he started by going to work on the familiar 2” x 2” U.S. military standard lock. He clamped the graduated cutters onto the lock’s bolt, pumping four times before it let go with a pop. With the lock gone, he lifted the bar, laying it aside and picking the door lock—an old and simple design—in less than ten seconds with a torque device and a pointy steel probe. Although the temperature hovered near freezing outside, Gage wiped sweat from his brow as he stepped inside the musty building and swept the flashlight over the space.

  The basement was vast, interrupted only by vertical columns spaced every fifteen feet. Ears perked, he listened for a full minute. Nothing. He found the stairwell, switching the flashlight off as he climbed four flights of stairs to the third level. Sitting by a window, Gage added a disc of adhesive film to the lens of the flashlight, switching it on to see the deep purple radiance that would give him just enough light to work by. Anyone glancing at the windows from the outside would not be able to make out the faint glow.

  After guzzling a bottle of water from his pack, Gage set to work. The slip of paper he had burned earlier detailed exactly which offices to bug. The task was considerably more difficult here than in a standard building—there were no furniture or lamps in which to plant the devices. Jean had directed him not to use light fixtures, or anything that could potentially be replaced by the incoming tenants. Thankfully, the German architect who had designed the building had some measure of flair, and each room had enough angles and wainscoting that Gage felt he could make it work.

  After finishing all of the offices but one, Gage moved into the large room at the end of the hallway. It had an adjoining anteroom and a full-sized washroom at the back. The door displayed the number 39, the board room. He would have to bug this one in all four corners. After two hours of work and, using a tiny battery-operated drill for one crafty placement Gage was particularly proud of, he went to work on the northeast corner of the building.

  Unlike many buildings in Germany that use radiators for their heat, the Keisler building was built with an enormous coal furnace in its basement. The furnace had long ago been replaced with the electric type, but the system still remained exactly as it had for the previous one hundred and twenty years. Gage was well-versed on the sophistication of the Nikkei “mean-wife” bug and its frequency-cancelling properties. Because of these unique features, the furnace ducts made ideal locations for placement.

  With a pocket flathead screwdriver, Gage turned the paint-crusted screws of the floor vent, having to pry it from its base from the many coats of various colors of paint. He adhered the bug to the side of the grate, satisfied that once he screwed it back into place, the millimeter-thick gap would be sufficient enough not to damage the device. As he was about to replace the grate, Gage noticed the flashing on the interior edge of the duct was rippled and contained several extra screws, their heads canted upward. They were sheet metal screws, clearly unlike the others. A shoddy installation.

  He used his hand to pull at the flashing, seeing where it had been warped in the past. Gage was tired. Hungry. But the extra screws, like many things in life, aroused his curiosity. He unscrewed the top two. The sheet metal popped outward, revealing the top of a shallow cavity underneath the floor. Gage pried the flashing out as far as it would move, using the light to illuminate the cavity. He couldn’t see much.

  He removed the remaining screws, pulling the flashing all the way out. It had been cut to shape, held in place by the screws. Gage placed the covering down and tilted the light to display what looked like a dusty bundle stretching underneath the floor. He reached in, hoping he didn’t come back with a rat bite, pulling out a large rectangular object. It was bulky, swathed in a frail muslin cloth. Gage sat back on the floor, placing the bundle on the floor between his legs. A slight tug on the surrounding twine snapped it, probably brittle from years of exposure to the heat of the furnace. After a few pulls of the ancient fabric, Gage waved his hand to clear the air of the millions of dust particles, focusing on the object.

  A book.

  His breathing picked up a bit.

  “Why would that be hidden here?” Gage whispered to himself, touching it. Nearly square, the book was made of heavy paper and leather-bound, not unlike a quality scrapbook.

  From his pack he removed the opaque sheet, draping it over the closest window sill, frustrated that the most recent American occupants had even removed the damned blinds on their way out. He’d have to risk it. Flashlight off, Gage removed the purple lens film, crumpling it and shoving it in his pocket. He had more. Sitting back down, he cupped the light between his hands so it wouldn’t throw off too much illumination; then he hit the switch.

  The book had a number on the front.

  1938.

  He used his finger to flip the book open, seeing the flowing script of German cursive writing, dotted by occasional umlauts and the uniquely Germanic scharfes-S symbols. Gage read the first entry, a somewhat clichéd passage about the author trying to disentangle herself from what must have been her lover.

  He flipped through the diary, reading snippets here and there. After a few minutes, Gage touched the Indiglo feature on his Timex, checking the time. He sucked in a sharp breath. It was time to get going. After stuffing the diary back into the muslin, he shoved the rumpled package back into the cavity. He allowed his mind to wander over the diary for a moment, finally deciding it must have been hidden there by an office worker in the building. Perhaps she had been married and had taken an illicit lover.

  Blue lights flashed in through the far windows as a European-style siren filled the air with sound. The polizei. He turned off the flashlight and froze. The siren wailed, growing in light and volume before passing quickly.

  Gage let out a long breath before he replaced the sheet metal, screwing the flashing in hand-tight. He placed the grate back onto the square notch and, as his screwdriver touched the paint-encrusted screws, he froze, his mind hearkening back only a few hours.

  The Stolpersteine—the stumble-stone—out front had displayed the family as having been taken from their home (this building!) in 1938.

  The diary was penned in 1938.

  It had been a possession of one of the home’s residents.

  The snippets he’d just read flashed through his mind.

  Cannot keep up my horrific ruse…

  Shiver every time he touches me…

  Disturbed by his demands of penitence for both of us…well aware of the outcome for others who have allowed him to have his way with them.

  Gage didn’t move for a full minute. Finally he blinked, his eyes moving downward. Hands trembling slightly, he removed the grate. He pulled the diary back out. Lying prone on the dusty floor, he reached his arm deep into the cavity, feeling more bundles. He removed them all, six more, their bulk nearly as large as a box of copy paper. He swept them with his light, seeing the different years, ’35, ’33, ’37, each jam-packed with the writer’s deepest thoughts.

  Rather than waste more time reading, he stuffed his pack with the diaries, frustrated when he could only fit three of them into the compact rucksack along with the equipment he’d brought. Chewing his lip, pondering what to do, Gage quickly decided to make two trips. It was certainly possible to carry the other three out under his arm, but sneaking around a building at night was bad enough. He certainly didn’t want to do it with his arms loaded with a fresh find. Leaving the Keisler Building the way he’d ente
red, Gage hurried away. He stored the diaries and equipment, hurried back, and left again.

  At his storage space, Gage decided to keep one diary for his own reading. He tucked it in his pack, securing the remainder in his safe. He locked the space and hurried home, taking a taxi after darting several blocks through back alleys.

  It was nearly 3 a.m. when he returned to his flat. His adrenaline still pumping, riveted by the reading, he read the 1938 diary until nearly 5 a.m. Going against his disciplines, he took one of the sleeping pills he kept in the medicine cabinet for very special occasions.

  Because without it, after what he had just read, sleep would have been an impossibility.

  Chapter 3

  Sunday, November 1

  Jean Jenois threw the door open to the DGSE’s outpost on Frankfurt’s Giessener Strasse, located in the rear warehouse of a French bottled water company. Jean was disgusted that he had been called so early on a Sunday morning. He wore last night’s expensive jeans and cashmere sweater, both partially hidden under a black Versace overcoat hanging from his thin build. His hair was plastered up one side of his head, his skin gray and pallid. Dangling from his mouth was a cigarette with an impossibly long ash. Before he went into the server room, Jean walked to the coffee maker, cursing when he discovered the pot only contained a hardened, baked-in crust throwing off an acrid odor.

  “Merde!”

  He burst into the server room, still cursing, grabbing an ashtray from the table, unsurprised to find he had lost the long ash somewhere in the building. “Damn it, Henri, this had better be good,” Jean growled, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Last night was a total strikeout. I drank too much. I spent too much. My head hurts. I have an emergency room-worthy case of blue balls. And more than anything I need a blasted cup of good coffee.” He stopped rubbing his nose, clapping his hands together and wincing from the sound. “Now, Henri, what the hell is so important that you interrupt my hangover sleep? Did Hartline not come through?”

  Henri Bautiste sat at the control desk, his chair turned to face Jean. An obese man, he would have been handsome if he had followed the doctor’s advice and lost seventy-five kilos. Typically wearing the mien of a superior yet bored computer geek, Henri’s eyes were alight with something different on this day. He seemed to suppress a grin as he paused dramatically, eyebrows arched. “Agent Jenois, the American, Monsieur Hartline, came through just fine. Just fine indeed. All devices appear to be in normal working order. He activated each one after it was in place and, although we have almost no voices to judge them by, his shuffling and moving could clearly be heard before he left the building.”

  “Okay,” Jean answered softly, increasing his volume dramatically for the effect. “So what the hell am I doing here?”

  Henri pursed his lips, appearing unsurprised at the outburst. “Several things occurred that made me suspicious. Being a thorough man, I did a little more checking that I think might arouse your curiosity as well. You know I wouldn’t have disturbed you otherwise.”

  “Dispense, please,” Jean moaned, pressing on his eyes with both thumbs; he needed coffee badly.

  Henri spun the chair and clicked play on the sophisticated digital video system. Jean squinted to see any movement in the grainy picture of a street. It was obviously taken at night. Just as Jean was about to ask for an explanation Henri pointed a sausage finger to the screen, showing a man hustling from a shadow and up the street, from the bottom to the top of the screen.

  “Who is that?” asked Jean.

  “Gage Hartline.”

  “Leaving? Okay, so he left the building. That was part of the plan, wasn’t it?”

  Henri gestured to the top right of the large screen. “See the counter-clock in the corner? It skips nearly twenty minutes, and now watch…”

  Jean’s eyebrows lowered as he saw what looked like the same figure return, slipping into the shadow at the lower left of the screen. “He came back?”

  “He most certainly did. He showed up, placed his bugs, left…then came back before leaving again.”

  “What?”

  “Two times he came and went.”

  “Where was the video from?”

  “I hacked it from traffic control.”

  “Well, won’t they see it?”

  “Why would they? It resets itself every few hours and only trips if someone speeds or runs a signal. I grabbed it as I began to hear what I perceived as abnormalities on the listening devices.”

  Jean squinted his eyes, looking into the distance. “Abnormalities?”

  Henri closed the video player, opening an audio program easily suitable for the studios at Abbey Road. He turned to face Jean. “Each of the bugs took about ten minutes to install…except for the one in the northeast corner of the board room.” Henri paused. “It took two hours.”

  Jean was interested now, moving from the table to the chair next to Henri. “Two hours? Seems a bit long, doesn’t it? It’s been years since I installed one, but once you have your spot, you typically just stick and go.” He shook two cigarettes from his pack, offering one to Henri, something he had never done before.

  The gesture wasn’t lost on Henri, a man who didn’t typically smoke. He accepted, puffing away before stifling a cough. “And the other bugs in the board room—cough—picked up something he said, presumably—cough—to himself.”

  “What was it?” Jean asked, thoroughly engrossed. He’d even forgotten his want of coffee.

  Henri clicked the mouse. There was a whisper of shuffling before Gage Hartline’s voice, low but clear. “Why would that be hidden here?”

  Jean leaned close, not breathing. He pushed the sliding button upward to increase the volume. “Do it again.”

  Gage Hartline’s voice, hard and clear. “Why would that be hidden here?” Deep breaths afterward.

  Jean Jenois, like most field agents, was an expert in psychology with many years of classroom and field experience. The voice and tone on the recording was clearly that of a man trying to calm himself.

  He locked eyes with Henri, his expression clearly puzzled. “Something was hidden?”

  Henri closed his eyes, lacing his hands on his considerable belly. “That’s what I heard.”

  “Anything else on the bugs?”

  “During the delay there was some thudding and shuffling of feet. I thought I heard paper riffling, but couldn’t be sure.”

  Jean chewed on his finger as Henri opened the video player again. “One thing I want you to see, Jean.” Henri had moved to a first-name basis that quickly. “Look at the small backpack when he entered, and look at it each time he leaves.” They studied the video. Each time Gage arrived, the pack was small. When he left, it was bulging, easily double its original size, stretched to its limit.

  Jean crushed out his cigarette and stood. He rubbed his already mussed hair, pacing the room. “So he was carrying something each time. Something large. And he made two trips?”

  Henri didn’t answer, wisely choosing to let Jean work things out in his own mind.

  Jean leveled a bony finger at Henri. “Who else have you told?”

  Henri made an insulted face, pulling his head back. “Jean, what do you take me for?”

  Jean leaned close, his voice a whisper even though they were alone. “Not a word, Henri. Not a damned word to anyone. Save those files and lock them away somewhere.” He gripped the back of Henri’s swivel chair. “Play the video one more time.”

  Jean leaned forward and watched the grainy film through slit eyes, speaking in a whisper to the screen. “Gage Hartline, old friend—what on earth did you find?”

  ***

  Gage awoke with a start, his heart thudding in his chest, his sheets damp. As often happened after a critical mission, his mind had raced as he had slept. It was just before ten on Sunday; he had pharmacologically slumbered almost five hours. After making a pot of thick coffee and devouring a plain bagel, Gage shaved his heavy stubble and took a quick shower. He fingered the diary for a momen
t, studying the cover before sticking it into his pack along with a pad and pencil, afterward dressing warmly for the frosty first day of November.

  The S-bahn train was nearly empty. At the Frankfurt Bahnhof he purchased a bottled water and a banana for the twenty-minute trip north to Friedberg on the regional train. It certainly wasn’t necessary for Gage to go out of his way like this, but it was a Sunday, he had nothing else to do and, if he knew Jean like he thought he knew Jean, and if his own delayed actions in the Keisler Building had aroused his suspicions, the Frenchman and his supporting DGSE would leave no stones unturned in their quest to find what Gage had been up to. And that included culling through his phone’s Internet searches and the searches from IP addresses near Gage’s home.

  After exiting the train, Gage performed three maneuvers to make sure he had not been followed. They were all as old as field-craft itself, but each equally effective. The first involved Gage casually seeking out an angled store window and looking for the reflection of a tail. There was no tail to be seen, no human beings at all. Just empty streets. He then used a double-back at a blind corner, again finding no one. Gage felt confident he was alone but had been taught to always check at least three times, using three different methods. His last maneuver was to climb onto a city bus and watch the activity as the bus drove away. There was nothing at all to be seen. He rode the bus through two stops, satisfied by this time he wasn’t being followed.

  From the bus stop on Achstrasse he reversed direction through an alleyway and headed up the rise into the center of town. Friedberg is a small city north of Frankfurt, most recently known for being the hometown of Elvis Presley during his time in the Army. All that remained as evidence of his tour was a chow hall named in his honor, and several hundred German women—now in their late sixties and early seventies—who still got misty at the mention of his name. Long before Elvis ever gyrated to the delight of American and German girls everywhere, Friedberg was an important waypoint in the farthest northern reaches of the Holy Roman Empire. But Gage wasn’t headed toward the Elvis Presley Dining Facility or any of the numerous Roman ruins. His destination was far less prominent, one of thousands just like it in Germany. He shuffled to a stop, glancing through a plate glass window littered with hand painted letters, advertising cheap Internet access in German and Arabic.