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

by Chuck Driskell

  “The baby died, didn’t it?”

  Gage shook his head, a wry grin coming over his face.

  Monika shot bolt upright. “Shut up! You’re kidding me, right?”

  He held both palms toward her in a defensive posture. “I don’t know anything for sure. All I know is both parents are listed dead, but the stumble-stone clearly says that the Morgenstern family was taken.”

  “Did he already have kids?”

  “I have no idea.”

  She stood, crossing the room with the sheet wrapped around her waist. After a long look out of the window, Monika turned back to him, her voice flat. “Adolf Hitler, the world’s preeminent anti-Semite, may have fathered a child…a half-Jewish child.”

  “Who could be alive today.”

  Her hand went over her mouth.

  “That’s what I’ve been dying to share with you.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Indeed.”

  Chapter 5

  Near Homburg, Germany

  Gage was at the wheel of the Volkswagen Golf as it puttered southwest on Autobahn-6. Three inches of fresh, overnight snow blanketed the earth in postcard beauty. The road was gull gray and dry, cleared by the efficient workers of the Strassenwesen. He turned the heating dial all the way to the right. There was no sunshine and, even though it was already mid-morning, the day was getting colder as a Siberian front raced westward nearly as fast as Monika’s Volkswagen.

  “You trust your cousin implicitly?” Gage asked, continuing their conversation.

  No answer. Monika’s head was tilted downward, unwavering.

  “Are you going to read both of them before we get there?” he asked, feigning exasperation.

  Monika looked up from one of the diaries, wearing the cloudy, back to reality look someone does when having been completely immersed. “Did you know the affair started in 1936? She mentions all sorts of things in here. The Olympics with Jesse Owens, things ‘Aldo’ said about liking your President Roosevelt at the beginning, his admiration for that pilot Lindbergh…it’s almost unreal.”

  Gage’s hands twisted on the wheel. “It is almost unreal, which is precisely why you said we should visit your cousin. Now, do you trust him?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you think he can speak to the authenticity of the diaries?”

  Monika turned to him in the passenger seat, pulling one of her legs up under the other. “I’m certain he can. Books have been his life since he’s been a teenager, and his business has done very well. He travels all over the world looking for rarities and, even though what we have here aren’t printed books, the very content will send him over the moon. I also know he is often asked to speak at universities. He’s quite brilliant.” She leaned over, rubbing his leg. “And you’re going to love Metz. It’s beautiful, and charming, and ‘old French’ without all the overblown fuss of Paris or Marseilles.”

  “I’m looking forward to experiencing it with you.”

  They rode on in silence for many kilometers. Rather than read, Monika studied the diary in her hand. She twisted it, touching the spine and the cover, finally laying her palm over the book. “That poor woman.”

  “Yeah,” Gage growled. “Hard to wrap my mind around some of it.”

  “Are these now your property?”

  His eyes turned to her. “I found them, so I would say yes. Possession is the key element regarding ownership, especially of something like this, which probably has no remaining rightful owner.”

  “But the building belonged to the Americans.”

  “And now it belongs to the Germans. But none of them knew the diaries were there. They couldn’t have. And imagine had they razed the building. The diaries could have been lost forever.” Gage allowed the car to slow a fraction. “Those diaries, if genuine, are going to be worth a great deal.”

  Monika’s eyebrows popped up. “Do you really think so?”

  “A fortune.”

  “Seriously?”

  He turned his head to her. “Think about it, Monika, you take our society’s obsession over reality shows and couple it with the seemingly insatiable thirst for all things World War Two…hell, you’d have publishers going to war with each other to publish this. You said it yourself, the world’s foremost and most famous anti-Semite, and probably the most famous man in the past hundred years, is found to have an illegitimate, half-Jewish offspring? Even if the diaries uncovered only the affair they’d probably still be priceless.”

  “Germany might explode under the revelations.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Gage answered. “I think Germany has done an incredible job facing its past. This would only serve to further demonstrate how sick that tyrant was.”

  She hefted one of the diaries. “Would they publish all of the diaries in one book?”

  “Hmm, hard to say.” Gage stared ahead, shaking his head in wonderment. “Think about it…there would be movie deals to be made. Documentaries. You’d have all kinds of experts wanting to write additional books focusing solely on the content of Greta’s diaries.”

  “So you’re saying the diaries could become more than just a shocking story?”

  “I think so, yes. They would be enormous, tantamount to one of the biggest historical finds of our time, almost like the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

  “Certainly not equal to something like that!”

  One reason he so loved Monika was her mind. He glanced at her. “Not in a historical sense, no, but in a modern sense of value, possibly even more than the Scrolls.”

  “As in a million euro?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “As in, I wouldn’t hazard a guess because I think the amount, when you take in all the directions the diaries could extend, will be more than I could probably fathom.” Again he turned to her. “So yes, millions. Many millions.”

  Monika’s mouth fell open in an exaggerated expression. She twisted it into a smile, giving his arm a squeeze. “Just think, Gage. You’ll be rich.”

  He tilted his head, giving it a shake. “Back to your original question—I don’t truly own the diaries.”

  “You said you do.”

  “Well, I have them…we have them. And we will keep them, but after we speak to your cousin, I think we should do some checking into the remains of the Morgenstern family.”

  Monika listened to him, tucking her chin down to her chest as she replied with her eyes straight ahead. “Gage, that child, if he or she exists and, assuming he or she is still alive, would be seventy-something. This discovery, and the windfall, could mean so much more for you, a man with his whole life ahead of him.”

  Gage appreciated Monika’s sentiment. “Thank you, but I’d feel better if we’d at least just check. To me the most important thing is getting these into the right hands.”

  “All of this is like something from a movie.”

  “Well, take good notes, because you’re living it out, and maybe you could be the one to write a script.”

  She patted his leg, giggling in her excitement.

  Gage forced himself to think about the tasks at hand. It wouldn’t be long before they were at the border. Metz, their destination in eastern France, was just a short jaunt past the border, and only an hour from Saarbrücken, the city where Monika lived.

  Monika cracked her window and dropped her gum onto the autobahn. The icy wind jarred Gage, making his mind change gears. Something, a distant foreboding, about going into France had been gnawing at him. “How long has it been since you crossed the border by car?” he asked.

  “A few months.”

  “And did they stop you?”

  “Not at all. The old buildings from the border crossing are still there, but they’re no longer even manned. We won’t even have to slow down.”

  He lifted his foot from the accelerator.

  She lowered her leg back to the floorboard, a concerned look growing on her face. “Do you think there will be a problem?”

  Gage thought of Jean. He was probably still
back in Frankfurt, camped out at Gage’s flat, wondering where the hell he was. His man would have relayed to him that Gage had burned him at the U-bahn station so, after his not going home the night before, Jean would now have to at least consider that Gage could be on the run. Would he have the wanton balls to set up a border checkpoint? That would require incredible pull from higher, and would raise a major stink. No, Gage decided. There would be no checkpoint. If Jean did that, he’d have to set one at every crossing on all of Germany’s borders. There were probably hundreds.

  “There won’t be any checkpoint there. But just in case, if we get questioned at any time, I’m going to give them a made-up name and tell them I don’t have any I.D. on me. I’ll be German.” He stared forward, reviewing his alleged background in his mind.

  Monika put her hand behind his neck, scratching lightly with her nails. “You’re beginning to scare me.”

  “Don’t worry, Monika. It’s just that there is one man who might know I took something from the building, and he may be looking for me. Casually looking for me.”

  “Who?”

  “He works for the people who hired me.”

  “And who are they?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  She pulled her hand away.

  As the pregnant silence ensued, he thought further about Jean’s likely course of action. Tagging anything related to Gage’s passport, identifications, or credit cards would be simple and wouldn’t raise much suspicion. He could pull it off on his own authority. Gage knew Jean well enough to know he would want it kept quiet, at least at this stage. And unless he was grossly mistaken, that meant electronic searches were his only fear at this stage. No one would be physically looking for him outside of Frankfurt.

  He hoped.

  Gage mashed the accelerator of the underpowered car as the autobahn began a gradual climb. Monika turned to face him. “I want to help you find out about the Morgenstern family.”

  “I like when we do things together.”

  Monika poked his arm with a rigid finger. “I mean it, Gage, not just some cursory assistance, I actually want to help.” She turned, crossing her arms, smile fading. “I forgave you for hiding your truth from me for so long, but now I want you to let me in…all the way in. Deal?”

  Gage nodded, not knowing what else to say but pleased at her resolve.

  But behind the sunglasses, the gnawing over France began again. And his head began to pound.

  ***

  Metz, France

  The rare book store was located on Rue de Lancieux, a pedestrian-only cobblestone street just a few blocks from the gilded Cathedral St. Etienne. Even in his anxious state, Gage couldn’t help but be impressed with Metz, perched on the scenic hills looking over the underappreciated Moselle River. A mist hovered over the hills in the distance, framing the city in soft Renoir-like elegance. Steeples rose above the ancient buildings, their bells ringing in the hour. Before going to the book store, they rented a modest room a few blocks away, paid for in euros from the money Jean had left for him at the dead drop. Before he paid, Gage hesitated, wondering if Jean had marked the bills.

  Paranoia, Gage, he thought, adjusting his sunglasses. Jean wouldn’t have gone that far over some books taken from a building.

  Would he?

  Guess we’ll find out.

  As they walked the curving streets near the hotel, hand in hand, Monika detailed her teenage summers in Metz. She knew a great deal about the city, from its historical Roman origins to today’s best restaurants. After turning onto Rue de Lancieux, Gage saw the store. From the front, he could tell it was exclusive from the sparkling white lights and handsome display in the front window. The normally busy streets of the hilly shopping district were nearly empty on a Monday afternoon after the light snow. The gray skies were beginning to give way to strips of blue, but with the clearing came the Siberian wind that cut like razorblades.

  Monika had done as Gage instructed her, resisting the temptation to phone her cousin Michel before they arrived. She pinched her long coat tightly, stepping inside with Gage in tow. Both of them wore chapped red faces, and the sudden contrast in temperature made them feel instantly hot and cold at the same time. The door made a bell jingle. From the back a fifty-something man appeared, frowning at the two average-looking individuals. He was turned out immaculately in a heavy wool suit, his Caesar-cut gray hair swept forward over an out-of-place tanned forehead. He looked as if he smelled something unpleasant.

  “Are you lost?” he asked in Meridional French.

  Monika shared a contemptuous look with Gage and turned back to the man. “Go get Michel, and I don’t appreciate your condescending tone.” Her retort consisted of her own flawless Alsatian-accented French.

  Gage raised his eyebrows, impressed at the sudden show of force from his lover. His French wasn’t strong, but he understood the gist of what she had said and couldn’t miss the bite of her tone. The shopkeeper blinked for a moment, taken aback before recovering. With a thin smile, he nodded and turned on his heels, disappearing.

  “Good job,” Gage whispered in English.

  “Big mistake to piss me off that quickly,” she answered, winking at him.

  Seconds later, Michel swept in as the two were removing their coats. It was as if every single item he’d chosen to wear had been picked for its audaciousness—chunky jewelry and a matching gold scarf, a Peter Max-inspired many-hued silken shirt, and stark white pants held by a cherry red belt with matching red shoes. He looked at Monika, his jaw going slack.

  “Monika, Monika, my Monika!” he sang. From behind the stacks of books he glided to her, taking her hands and opening them, looking her up and down. “It has been what, four years? And you’re even prettier than before! Viens m'enculer, you are prettier than your gorgeous mama, and I didn’t think that could happen.” Michel lowered her arms, turning to Gage and touching his own narrow chest with his right hand. He switched to rough German, playfully mocking Gage’s hardened demeanor. “My, my, my. Who is this beautiful specimen of male creation you have thankfully, graciously brought into my dull, gray little world?”

  Gage fidgeted uncomfortably. He pulled off his sunglasses and turned his eyes to Monika. She was looking up at him, clearly enjoying the moment. “Michel, this is Gregory. He is from the U.S.” Gage shot her an angry look; he had wanted to keep his German cover.

  Immediately, Michel flipped to unaccented American English, clicking his tongue lightly. “And my favorite trip every year is to the glorious market in New York. Midtown, Chelsea, the shopping, the nightlife, the beautiful denizens—oh the treasures that city has to offer.” His eyes wandered as he spoke, cupping both hands over his heart. Gage absently wondered if the treasures he was referring to were books or something entirely different.

  Michel did a final once-over of Gage. Then, as if shaking himself from his reverie, blinked heavily before turning back to his cousin, staying with English. “So, my dear Moni, what is it that brings you to our fair little city?”

  “We need to be alone, Michel.”

  “Alone, alone?”

  “Oui.”

  Michel gave her a long, curious look, finally nodding. He stepped to the rear of the store and they heard him tell the man, Gerard, to go have a protracted cup of coffee somewhere. Gerard stepped to the front, his lips pursed as he pulled on a waist length leather jacket. With a disapproving look, he turned and exited to the rear, the alarm beeping twice for what was presumably the back door.

  “Boyfriend?” Monika asked with a conspiratorial grin.

  “Oh, doesn’t he so wish,” Michel answered, eyes closed. “Boyfriend, no. He is, however, the shrewdest book buyer in eastern France. And he’d be rich if he knew how to manage his own money. But he doesn’t, and that’s my gain.” Michel clasped his hands and made a can’t-wait face like a fifth grader. “So, what’s the big secret? Do tell.”

  Gage hitched his thumb to the front door. “Mind locking us in?”

  “Oh, G
regory,” he sang with a cocked eyebrow, “I thought you would never ask.”

  Gage looked at Monika, widening his eyes. Monika giggled.

  A minute later, the three people were situated around a lighted viewing table in the rear of the store. Michel had poured each of them a steaming mug of coffee, and he and Monika lit Gauloises as Gage went into his backpack, placing the muslin bundle on the table. Gage shot a stern glance at Monika; he’d seen her smoke once before and, as the smoke hit his nostrils, so did the familiar craving. Pushing the thought from his mind, he unwrapped the bundle, placing before them the large 1938 diary.

  Michel’s eyes widened. “Oh, Gregory, you certainly have a big one there.” He smiled wickedly, thrilled at his own wit.

  Monika touched her cousin’s hand. “Business now, Michel. Stop torturing Gregory.”

  “Sorry.”

  Gage slid the oversized diary to him. Michel took it, pulling on his cigarette as he appraised the diary’s condition before laying it flat on the table. Using his thumb and forefinger, he opened it with a carefully practiced caution. The book dealer looked at the name inside the front, turning it to the first page and reading. After several pages, he looked up, staring at his cousin.

  “She wrote beautifully.”

  “Yes, she did,” Monika agreed.

  Michel sipped his coffee, lightly smacking his lips. “Now, Monika…Gregory…I hope you know that a diary from 1938, even while nicely-written, isn’t exactly something in high demand.” He crushed out the cigarette. “I sincerely hope, as pleasant as Gregory is on my tired old eyes, that you didn’t come all this way for that.”

  Monika looked to Gage. He nodded. She gripped her cousin’s forearm.

  “This isn’t just any old diary.”

  “Oh? And why isn’t it?”

  “It was, allegedly, written by one of Adolf Hitler’s personal servants.”

  Michel’s fingers went back to the diary. He spoke as he considered it. “Indeed? Are you certain?”

  “Pretty certain,” Gage replied.

  “Does she mention Hitler?”