The Diaries - A Gage Hartline Espionage Thriller (#1) Page 8

  Gage placed thirty euro on the counter for the server, waiting until the Italian man had made change and moved away. He stammered and stuttered, unused to dating on the fly, finally blurting a question that shocked his date. “Then do you want to get a hotel room?”

  Her eyes widened. “You don’t want to just go to your flat?”

  “No,” he answered, using his true desire as an excuse to avoid Jean and the DGSE. “I want to be...”

  Monika arched her eyebrows, nodding almost imperceptibly.

  Gage swallowed thickly, the fear of being found mingling with the age-old sensation coursing through him. “I want to be alone with you someplace…someplace romantic.”

  Monika appeared too stunned to answer. She blinked rapidly, finally nodding.

  With a deep breath to steady himself, Gage stood and led her from the restaurant, hiding his trembling hands deep in his pockets.

  Chapter 4

  U.S. Army captain Damien Ellis placed three pair of identical blue jeans in the old suitcase, nestling them in tightly between his walking shoes, maximizing space. From the bureau, he removed three white undershirts, each looking as if it had been pressed and starched, placing them in tight hot-dog-style rolls beside the blue jeans. The small apartment was a bandbox, containing only a faint hint of Borkum Riff pipe tobacco. Pictures of Ellis and his wife were everywhere, each of them displaying a couple wearing loving smiles, radiating happiness.

  The suitcase was nearly full. Ellis hummed as he placed his shaving tackle in the notch he’d intentionally left in the top center, finishing his work by straightening the contents as if there might be an inspection any moment. He glanced at his quarter-century-old wind-up Timex, crossing the room and turning on the television to the Armed Forces Network. It was 7 p.m. in Germany on a Sunday, meaning back in the States it was kickoff time for the early NFL games. The game he cared about involved his beloved Tennessee Titans. Damien had watched them since they were the Oilers, stealing his allegiance from the Dallas Cowboys after the way their new owner had treated Tom Landry more than twenty years earlier. But now it was all about the Titans, and they were about to have an epic battle with the upstart, high-flying Texans. His phone rang.

  Ellis found the cordless where he always left it. “Captain Ellis, here.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was Staff Sergeant Peter Sorgi. His Chicago accent was overpowering; Ellis loved it. “Seriously, sir? You even answer as Captain when you’re at home?”

  “Lotta nerve calling me just as the Titans are kicking off, Sarge.” Peter Sorgi was his investigator and chief assistant. The two men had the Army’s version of a father-son relationship.

  “Well, it’s the only time I knew you would definitely be home. I just wanted to tell you to go to France and have a good time, and don’t think about work back here. You haven’t had leave in over a year, and…well…I know you need it.”

  Ellis sat on the edge of the bed, allowing his mind to go forward a moment. “Oh, I plan to relax, Peter. I plan to drink some good wine, to eat some aged cheese, to see some beautiful sights. Got me a new book to read, a thick’n, and a backup in case I finish it. Gonna sleep late…gonna do what I please without Uncle Sam lookin’ over my shoulder.”

  “Gonna meet some fine-looking women,” Sorgi added.

  Ellis forced a fake chuckle, knowing Peter meant well. “I’m not quite ready for that, Peter. But thank you.” There was an awkward pause. “You’ve got my schedule and I’ll have my phone on. You call me if you need me.”

  “I won’t be calling you, sir. Just go relax. In fact…get drunk, why don’t you?”

  Ellis let out a laugh. “If I do, I won’t be able to appreciate the fruit of the vine that the French have so laboriously cultivated for thousands of years. No sir, that wine is there to be enjoyed, savored, with a clear head.”

  “Get drunk anyway, sir,” Sorgi said with conviction. “Do it for me.”

  “No promises, but you never know.”

  “I’ll miss having you around, pissing off the chief.”

  “Thanks Peter, he probably needs the break from me too.” They said brief goodbyes.

  Ellis, a veteran officer in the U.S. Army Criminal Investigations Division, known commonly by its acronym CID, thumbed the phone off and placed it on the dresser. His eyes cut to the favorite picture of his wife Rose. He picked it up, staring at her soft smile, his bottom lip trembling. Tears rimmed his eyes, making him blink them away.

  Based in Frankfurt, Ellis was one of U.S. Army Europe’s top investigators. Tall and slightly hunched and, at fifty-three years old, he was also the oldest Army captain in the entire European command. In his early years, he had worked as a Biloxi cop, finishing college during his off hours. Then, in 1990, when Desert Shield kicked off, Damien Ellis (who missed Vietnam by less than a decade) joined the Army, gaining an appointment at Officer’s Candidate School in Fort Benning, Georgia. It was there, in church, that the hard-working African-American soldier met his wife Rose, marrying her the day after graduation. After a quick tour of the desert during the waning days of Desert Storm, the older military policeman lieutenant was stationed at Fort Bragg, catching the eyes of his superiors as a steel-trap, methodical bloodhound of an investigator. It wasn’t much time until he was transferred to CID, honing his detective skills while working vice, fraud, and eventually major crime.

  His career had been stellar, but it was nearly over. After joining the Army at thirty-one years of age, the senior captain had been too old to make major, passed over twice before realizing the rank of O-3 was as far as he would ever go. Unable to have children, he and his wife Rose, an elementary school teacher, made the most of their military time, approaching each of his frequent transfers as a new adventure. They had hiked the jungles of Panama; learned to love garlicky kimchi in Korea; explored the Napa Valley area while stationed in San Francisco, and it was there the couple had learned to appreciate the science—and the art—of wine. Rose had loved the subtle, less oaky whites; Ellis preferred the big, explosive reds. And then, just before he was scheduled to make what would be his last move to Germany, a hyper-aggressive brain tumor had ripped her from him in less than sixty days.

  “I wish you were here to go to France with me, darlin’,” he said to Rose, gripping the frame in both hands. After kissing her image, he turned his attention to the television, wiping his eyes as the Titans marched down the field.

  ***

  Gage and Monika lay under the blanket together. He was quiet, his chest rising and falling as she lay in the crook of his arm, tracing a finger up and down his torso. The hotel was nice, not a four-star, but one of the more than adequate inner-city hotels Frankfurt welcomes its many business travelers with. Monika had paid, insisting that Gage let her, using her credit card. Normally he would have objected, but not knowing the surveillance situation, he had relented. Gage had barely breathed as they shared the elevator with another couple, riding in silence to the fifteenth floor.

  Safely in their room, Monika unzipped her knee-length boots and tossed them in the corner.

  Gage was silent.

  She unbuttoned the highest button of her blouse, using a washcloth to mop the haze of perspiration from her chest and forehead.

  Gage had stared out the window at the snow falling on the striking Frankfurt skyline, his arms wide on the mullions of the modern, pane less window.

  Monika retrieved scotch from the mini-bar, pouring a mineral water for Gage. She downed the mini-bottle before drinking another in three gulps.

  Gage lowered the shade, darkening the room. He removed his watch, placing it on the table with his sunglasses, wallet and keys.

  She moved behind him and pressed the glass of water into Gage’s hand.

  He thanked her, never making eye contact.

  Monika reached around him, rubbing his chest with her red nails before spinning him around.

  Gage stood stone still as she reached for his mouth on her tiptoes. Her tongue pressed th
rough his lips, sending his heart racing and providing him with tangible, and embarrassing, excitement. While certainly reveling in their union, he remained still and let her do the work. The kiss ended when Monika pulled away and wiped her wet lips with her sleeve.

  “What’s wrong, Gage? Why won’t you return my kiss?”

  Gage was still standing in the same position. His head shook almost imperceptibly, his mouth still open. “Monika, I want to. It’s just—”

  “I’m here, Gage. Here for you. Ever since I met you, I have been. Just waiting for you to love me. And I’ve been so patient with you because I know, I just know, there’s something in your mind…a schism that divides you into two men, one of which is tormented by something…I see it when the pain passes through your face, but I just don’t know why.” Her voice cracked. “You wear those black sunglasses at the oddest times, and I always see you rubbing your head. The headaches you get, Gage, I looked them up. They’re not normal and they’re not healthy.” She opened her arms. “Let me in, Gage. Don’t keep me on the outside any longer.”

  Gage blinked several times, in disbelief over the way she had leapt into his soul. Overriding his hesitation, his body sprang into action. He pressed into her, ignoring the screams of protest from the wounded portion of his psyche. With her wrists grasped firmly, Gage kissed her. It was long and passionate, drawing a hum of delight from Monika Brink as she gently bit his lower lip. They stood that way for some time, kissing and allowing their hands to roam.

  Finally, Monika pushed him to the bed, telling him to sit and wait as she disappeared into the bathroom. The water ran for a very long time and, after it stopped, Gage continued to wait for another ten maddening minutes. Eventually, mercifully, the door opened and Monika emerged into the dim light of the warmly-toned hotel room.

  Her dark, wet hair hung straight onto the white terry robe. She moved directly in front of him, her face flushed from the heat of the water as she untied the robe and allowed it to fall to the floor. Gage stared at her, allowing his eyes to move up and down the beauty of her creation. It was as if time had stopped for him, allowing him to view her like he might a detailed photograph. The bathroom light behind her became a halo, allowing him to drink in her true shape that he had so often dreamed of. Her breasts were large and firm, her hips just wide enough to give her body the classic hourglass shape which seemed so ridiculously out of fashion. Framed between her hips was a tiny strip of dark hair, shifting slightly as she moved one leg across the other. Gage was transfixed, unable to move or even blink.

  Monika curled her finger. “You can touch me, you know.”

  He stood and moved to her, turning her and placing her on the bed. Instinct took over, defeating the years of introversion. Gage kissed her again before allowing his mouth to wander her body, earning quiet murmurs of pleasure and satisfied fingers through his choppy blond hair.

  For the first time in nearly four years, Gage Hartline was intimate with a woman. There had been others before her, but Monika was different. And Gage, despite the long layoff, did not disappoint.

  Later, sated, he stared at the ceiling, waiting for Monika to fall asleep. When she did, he allowed his mind to think about Jean, and the business from earlier. Jean had to know Gage had found something, but how much did he know? If he thought the find was merely old diaries, would he care? He would if he knew their contents, but how could he?

  Could he know the explosive truth Gage had discovered in the Friedberg Internet café? Had he been following Gage then? Gage had checked, and had seen no tails.

  Perhaps Jean knew Gage found something and, whatever it was, if Gage had valued it enough to take it…well…then Jean wanted it. This was the most likely scenario. Meaning he would have to act quickly to move the diaries to a safer place. If Jean felt he had a claim to whatever Gage found, he should have warned him in advance. And the fact that Jean hadn’t called indicated to Gage one singular notion.

  Jean Jenois, DGSE agent, intended to take whatever it was Gage had found.

  Gage stared at the ceiling for a half hour, fidgeting occasionally. Monika opened her eyes and turned to him, her dusky features cast in a blue glow from the moonlight bleeding between the blinds.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  He shook his head, brushing her hair back.

  “Tell me about this,” she said, touching the small black tattoo on his right shoulder.

  “Bah,” he dismissed. “Just a stupid thing I got when I was younger.”

  “Isn’t this what lawyers use for their symbol?”

  “I don’t know.” Yes I do.

  The tattoo was a variation of Themis, Greek goddess of Justice. In Themis’s left hand were scales, in her right a sword. It was the only common thread between Gage and the rest of Colonel Hunter’s team. The intelligence “expert” at Bragg, when the team had been disbanded, recommended the men have their common brand removed.

  No one did.

  After laying still for another five minutes, Monika broke the silence. “I can’t sleep either.” She stood, padding into the bathroom. Gage heard the shower turn on again. Monika reappeared.

  “Well, are you coming?”

  The shower was hot and blissful, still falling short of the pleasure they enjoyed afterward. An hour later, sated and spent, the two slept peacefully.

  ***

  Monday, November 2

  Monika rolled over, opening her eyes to dull light and Gage situating a tray topped with a silver urn of coffee and a basket of flaky croissants. He was wearing his heavy pea coat and his black stocking cap, and she could feel the touch of cold air he’d ushered in. His sunglasses were still on the nightstand, a good sign. Sitting on the dresser was his backpack, its shape made square by something inside. She watched him as he moved to the ledge by the window, sipping his coffee, staring out at the ashen sky.

  “Good morning,” she said in English.

  Gage turned, his face cracking into a smile tinged in embarrassment. “Hey, there. I guess I woke you up. Sorry, I was trying to be quiet.”

  “What time is it?” Monika asked, reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand.

  “Only about seven. We didn’t get all that much sleep.”

  She rubbed her thighs over the blanket, yawning. “That’s okay. It was a worthy trade-off. May I have a coffee?”

  He poured a cup, adding milk the way she liked it.

  “Where did you go?” she asked, sitting up and feeling a slight headache.

  Gage handed her the cup, pulling the chair next to the bed. He rubbed his stubble with his hand, opening and closing his mouth as if the words were hung up in his throat. Finally he stared at her, just blinking.

  “Gage?”

  “I’m trying,” was all he could stammer.

  Fear shot through Monika. Oh God, was he married back in the States, or something of a similar nature? His look was guilt, sheer guilt. “Gage, what is it? You’re scaring me.”

  His breaths were ragged, coming in bursts. He steadied himself on the nightstand with his right hand.

  “Gage, you aren’t married, are you? Is that why you’ve been so hesitant all this time?”

  That shook him. His eyes went wide as he moved his trembling hand to her arm, touching it in a reassuring manner. “No, Monika….no.” He exhaled a long breath, his head shaking as he forced a smile and a chuckle. “Nothing like that at all…it’s just…well, I decided this morning that…”

  “Decided what?”

  He squeezed her arm. “To tell you, Monika. I decided to tell you the truth, all of it. And…” he hesitated, “…it’s shaken me a bit to consider opening up.”

  Monika pulled her arm away. “And you haven’t told me the truth, Gage?”

  His face showed shame and remorse. But it was also as if a current of resolve had entered his bloodstream. He straightened, looking like a proud and truthful military man facing an inquisition. “No Monika, I have not.” He held up a finger. “I haven’t told anyone the truth, i
n years, about who I am…and that, unfortunately, is the truth.”

  Monika placed her hand over her mouth as she felt tears run down her face. “After all this time, Gage…after all this time I spent on you, it was all spent on a lie?”

  A few moments passed before Gage responded. “If I can convince you to just listen, I don’t think you’ll feel nearly as betrayed as you do right now.”

  Monika tightened her lips together, pulling the sheets and blanket up over her chest. She turned, leaning her head back against the headboard, her eyes closed. “Okay, so talk.”

  And he did.

  After a minute, she turned to him, her eyes perfectly round, a hand over her open mouth.

  The truth kept coming.

  ***

  As he had done the day before, Jean Jenois burst into the DGSE station house hidden inside the French bottled water company’s warehouse. His head pounded from the previous night’s ingestions, making him quietly curse himself, knowing that he needed to get things under control and dry out for a few months. But only after winter. Winter was the ideal time for harvest consumption. Warm summer months didn’t invite the reds the way a cold night does, with a busty (and ditzy) fraulein by his side, awaiting the Frankish bodily pleasures he so readily doled out in great heaps.

  Jean dropped the empty to-go triple macchiato into the garbage. Poured a cup of regular coffee, loading it with milk. He glanced at his Omega; Fredi was fifteen minutes late. He waited, smoking, thinking. Where was Gage? And what had he found? Whatever it was, it was worth him making two trips and then evading Fredi. He knew he would be tailed, Jean thought, shaking his head in disgust. That meant, beside the fact that he was a guilty bastard, that whatever it was he had found, did have value. He was exasperated because had Fredi (another fledgling crétin Paris seemed to be churning out with great frequency) …had he not aroused Gage’s suspicion, Jean would have his hands on whatever it was that the American had taken—from him—the way Jean saw it. Just as he finished the cigarette Fredi rushed in, shedding his coat, a scarf and his stocking cap. He stepped to the radiator under the window, rubbing his hands over the rising warmth.