The verse was from the book of Deuteronomy and, with his eyes staring blankly at the tan wall, Gage said it aloud, over and over, his tone controlled and businesslike.
“I will take revenge and be satisfied.”
PART Three
November 13
The Vengeance
Chapter 11
Friday, November 13 - one week later
Captain Ellis signed for conference room number two to avoid the distractions of the office. He and Sorgi skipped physical training, deciding to start work at 7 a.m., and not to come out of the room until they went over every ounce of evidence they had gathered. Ellis chewed the back of his finger while he rocked in the squeaky chair, staring at the cheap government clock as it neared the top of the hour. Soldiers intermittently walked by, wearing their physical training gear, their talk mainly about breakfast chow or what the coming day held. Ellis heard the clock’s hand click when it reached seven. Quick footsteps in the hall. Sorgi burst in, carrying his briefcase, two cups and a bag.
“Where did you stop?” Ellis asked urgently.
“The Turkish joint just off post.”
Ellis rubbed his hands together. “Good, good. I need the coffee to be strong today.” He snatched the bag from Sorgi and looked inside, placing it under his nose and taking a great whiff of the freshly baked, honey-glazed bread the Turkish restaurant was known for.
“Smell good?”
“Let’s just say I won’t be standing in the way of your next promotion.” Ellis narrowed his eyes at Sorgi, who was standing with arms crossed and a sideways smile splitting his face. “Why are you grinning like that?”
“Maybe because I found something interesting, that’s why.”
“Well, what is it?” the elder investigator asked, his knuckles rapping the oak table.
Sorgi displayed his palms. “What is it you always tell me, sir? ‘Patience?’ Well, let’s just go through this and when we get to it, I’ll tell you.”
Ellis glared at him, eventually nodding. In a neat grid on the table, he had arranged each of his folders while he awaited his subordinate’s arrival. While Ellis devoured two of the pastries, Sorgi organized his folders similarly on the opposite end of the table. For the past week, the two men had split up, seeing each other only once, usually communicating by cell phone or text. They both knew that neither had found the one thing they needed, but perhaps if they held an information-sharing meeting, two or three minor facts would meld together to create one of substance. Ellis picked up his notepad, studying it as a piece of honey glaze fell from his lip into the cup of thick Turkish coffee.
“Let’s see here. What did you find when you visited Sergeant First Class Pelham in Grafenwöhr?”
Sorgi waved a purple folder but didn’t even open it. “According to Hartline’s records, they should have been stationed together in Korea in ’93. He’s never heard of Hartline.”
“Show him the picture?”
“Never seen him before,” Sorgi said, spinning the folder in the air and allowing it to helicopter to the floor.
“How about First Sergeant Brown in Stuttgart?”
Sorgi closed his eyes and shook his head. “He was even supposed to be in Hartline’s platoon. Never heard of him—never seen him.”
Ellis scratched through the name. They had gone back through the Department of the Army’s supposed service record for Gage Nils Hartline, pulling unit rosters and cross referencing them against the soldiers who happened to be serving in Germany presently. Sorgi had been on the road, hoping that one of them might know him or recognize the picture. Ellis felt it a futile exercise, but most tough cases were broken by the practice of disciplined doggedness, especially when the data began to look useless.
“So, did any of them turn out?”
Sorgi shook his head, his lips whitening from a tight smirk.
Ellis frowned impatiently. “What the heck are you grinning about? You’re like the dadgum Cheshire cat.”
“Let’s do yours, then we’ll come back to mine.”
Using the telephone, Ellis had spent the past week calling the commanders of Hartline’s purported units; none of them had ever heard his name. He was even able to track down two of his supposed drill sergeants from Fort Sill—one of whom was now a guest of the state in North Dakota, convicted for nearly killing a biker in a bar fight (a kind and articulate speaker, according to Ellis)—neither recalled ever instructing a private named Hartline. Dead ends all over.
Ellis downed the rest of his coffee and stared into the paper sack, wincing at the temptation before sliding the pastries back to Sorgi. He spoke softly. “His apartment has nothing of value. He has no background. He works for a bogus company: a green card factory. He’s alleged to have killed a girl who I saw him with, trying to get away from Metz after speaking of some kind of diary.” He shook his head. “None of it adds up.”
“I’ll say.”
“Not like that,” Ellis said, shaking his head. “I mean John Doe—Hartline—as a killer. Maybe he is a pro, but if so, why whack her in a hotel? He had to travel with her from Metz to here in Frankfurt. Plenty of deep lakes and rivers between there and here he could’ve disposed of her in.” With his right hand Ellis pinched his lower lip, going over it again in his mind. “And then there’s what Barron heard about the polizei saying how Brink’s friends all said she was in love with Hartline, and there was no evidence of any difficulties between them. I can’t get over all the inconsistencies.”
Sorgi watched his boss, waiting. When Ellis was done speaking, he flipped open a folder, clearing his throat. “Okay. You ready for my big surprise?”
Ellis leaned back in the chair, lacing his hands behind his head, ready to take whatever news it was that Sorgi was so proud of. “Hit me with it.”
Sorgi studied a sheet of paper then cleared his throat. “Allow me to shed some light on something you might find somewhat interesting. Late yesterday, at my last stop in Hanau at Francois Kaserne, I was talking to this Sergeant First Class Yeltin fellow from Wichita.”
“Yeah?”
“So we’re in this dink platoon daddy’s office, and there’s two or three burly E-7’s in there too, all milling around, killing time before their final formation so they can head home. At first they think I’m some small-timer from CID, looking for their troops who might have bounced some checks at the PX. But then they get the tenor of our conversation, so they all perk up. They’re curious about my questions and, after all my dead ends, I wasn’t too interested in trying to keep it private any more. I was just ready to get home.”
“And?” Ellis asked impatiently. If there was one thing about Sorgi that irritated him (to no end) it was the way he added scene-setting preambles to things he deemed important.
“And this one platoon sergeant named Allen Gonzalez, an E-7 from Corpus Christi, he’s acting like he’s doing something at his desk but I can tell he’s listening to everything intently. You know how sucked in people get when they realize you’re talking about a murder?”
Ellis clenched his eyes shut as he spoke, his voice rising. “Jim Sorgi, will you please get to the damned point!”
Sorgi’s mouth fell open before he lifted his hand, showing the peace, or number two, sign. “That’s two curses in about a week, sir. I think we should call the doc.”
Ellis’s stare was without humor.
“Okay. Okay. Sorry.” Sorgi sat up straight. “So I’m going through the whole spiel and, when I’m near the end, this guy Gonzalez—who I wasn’t even there to see—he spies the service picture of Hartline and said, ‘Hey, I knew that dude.’”
“You’re kidding!” Ellis said, jolting upright and knocking over the empty Styrofoam cup.
Sorgi smiled tightly. “Sure as shit, sir. He tapped the picture and said he and the young man in the picture went to basic training together. They went to AIT and then were stationed here in Germany before they split and then they lost track of one another.”
Ellis shook his head. �
��He’s gotta be mistaken. And why the hell didn’t you call me?”
“It’s been a week since anyone heard anything, sir, and it was the end of the day. I figured one night wouldn’t make a big difference, and I knew we’d be meeting this morning anyway.”
Rubbing his eyes, Ellis asked him, “Did you run the name?”
“Not yet.”
“What is it?”
Sorgi ran a finger over his notes. “Matt Schoenfeld, though he wasn’t sure of the spelling. Gonzalez said he remembered that he was from either Minnesota or Wisconsin. Said he bunked straight across the aisle from him and that he was good people.”
Ellis hurried to the door. “Let’s go look at PERSCOM.”
***
Just as Ellis and Sorgi were booting a private-first-class off of the PERSCOM computer, Jean Jenois skidded his Mercedes to a halt in the alleyway parking lot behind the French bottled water company that housed the veiled DGSE outpost. A light mist had fallen all morning, leaving a glossy film of dampness on the streets. His bumper impacted two wooden crates and, as Jean exited his car, he saw a mangy cat sprinting up the alley after being rudely awoken from his slumber.
Jean cursed under his breath as he entered the back of the dark building, his trademark cigarette dangling from his mouth. He was hung over, as usual. This time there was coffee in the pot—good coffee—French coffee. Jean poured a cup, pulling hard on the cigarette as he stirred in the full cream. No one else was in yet, other than Henri. As soon as Jean gulped half of the cup down and crushed out his cigarette, he walked into the inky dark computer room, smelling Henri’s sausage and peppers before he ever saw his obese countryman.
“What is it this time?” Jean asked.
Henri spun in his chair, jerking a paper napkin from his rumpled sweater, using it to eliminate the majority of the breadcrumbs from his beard. “You should have a wee bit more respect for me, Jean. Everything in this little mission of yours can be traced back to the initial information I gave you. And I did it from the goodness of my heart.” Henri stood, crumbs falling as he crossed the room and retrieved a Coca-Cola from the small refrigerator. He turned, swilling from the can before staring at Jean, obviously waiting on an apology.
Jean placed his coffee on the computer table. He retrieved his cigarettes, Gauloises, and tapped two out, handing one to Henri, speaking as he lit them. “Look, Henri, I’m well aware that I’m an ass—I was born that way. But in my line of work…in the field…one must be an ass. It doesn’t pay to be kind and gentle when dealing with duplicitous operatives and sneaky heads of state. Trust me on this.”
Henri greedily sucked on the cigarette, but didn’t speak.
Jean rolled his eyes, his tone far from genuine. “Damn, Henri…I’m sorry. Okay?”
Henri sipped his Coke, cutting his eyes to the ceiling.
Jean reset his face, taking on a look that was contrite. “I really am sorry, Henri. I appreciate all you do around here, really. You’re the best there is.”
Henri smiled thinly and moved to the computer. He leaned back, using the other chair to prop his feet up. With smoke shrouding his small head, he spoke gravely. “Since you gave me my marching orders a week ago, I have…” his voice trailed as he retrieved a clipboard. “I have logged an average of nineteen hours a day. I’ve hacked every tracking system, every purchase database, and every camera in all of France and Germany, all looking for your man.”
“And?” Jean asked, his pulse quickening.
“And Monsieur Hartline is the clever sort. He hasn’t revealed himself at all since that time, at least not that I can find.”
“And the polizei motorcycle?”
“Nothing. It’s gone. Vanished. He obviously ditched it in a way no one would find it.” Henri’s voice lowered an octave, sounding reverent as he said, “The man is a pro worthy of our own DGSE.”
Jean deflated.
“But,” Henri said, spinning to the computer and enlarging a grainy video, paused. “I’m a pro of a different level.” He poked a stubby finger at the screen. “And I managed to find video concurrent with the night he planted the bugs at the Keisler building in the Westend.”
“Concurrent? What do you mean?” Jean used all his willpower to remain calm, leaning over and squeezing Henri’s plump shoulder.
“Before we do that, I must show you something else I learned through my tireless efforts.” He removed a stack of computer paper that must have been forty centimeters thick. “I decided to check the major search engines for the days following Hartline’s liberating whatever it was he took. It took a great deal of time, but I think I was able to extract something that you will find meaningful.”
Jean’s heart was racing. “And?”
“Well, as you might imagine, there were all manner of searches emanating from the state of Hessen. I began to cull through them, using a special program to help me wash away the usual pornography and other trite searches.” He laid his hand on the stack of paper. “And this stack of paper represents the filtered out searches from the twenty-four hours following Hartline’s job for us. I scanned through every single one of them, numbering more than one-hundred-thousand.”
Jean closed his eyes, using every gram of his strength not to snap at Henri. “Can you please bottom-line this, Henri?”
Henri pursed his lips, nearly smiling. “Well, when I scrutinized the searches, I did find an interesting grouping from the morning after Hartline did the job. The I.P. address led me to an Internet café in Friedberg. It was a group of Google searches.”
“Yes?”
Henri whipped the top sheet from the stack and began to read it. “Here are a few: ‘Nazi diaries, hidden Nazi diaries, Albert and Margarete Speer, Greta Dreisbach…Adolf Hitler’.”
“Great. So someone was searching for stuff on the Nazis. Powerful work, Henri.”
“You’re beginning to be an ass again.”
Jean closed his eyes and leaned his head back until his face was parallel with the floor and ceiling. “Just keep going.”
“In order to prove that Hartline might have been there, I began to check the cameras that still had memory in Friedberg.” Henri began to type rapidly, loading a file.
Jean opened his eyes again, watching as the HD screen flickered. “I thought you told me the cameras reset and erase their memory after a few hours. How are you still finding video?”
“Because not every camera in this godforsaken country is a traffic camera.” With a flourish, Henri played an imaginary note with his finger before hitting the return key. Three frames appeared on the screen. Gage Hartline walked straight into the camera, buttoning his pea coat and wearing the same pack as he had in the previous videos.
“That’s Friedberg?” Jean asked quickly.
“Oui. Look at the time stamp. Fifteen minutes before the Google searches began. He had just exited the train station.”
Jean was intrigued, but still not seeing the transcendent connection Henri was selling. “Are you going to stitch this all together for me?”
“I’m getting there. You said the French ‘people’ told you that the book dealer had a chance to represent Hartline and his woman in the sale of some rare books, correct?”
“Oui.”
“On the day the book dealer died, read what I strongly presume to be his Internet searches.” Henri handed a single sheet of paper to Jean.
Jean gripped both edges of the paper, his hands wrinkling the sheets as his face moved back and forth as if he were engrossed in a tennis match.
“My God!” he yelled. “Was he on track with this?”
“If those diaries contained what he was searching, then they would certainly be a find of epic proportion. He also made phone calls to several major publishers and, through a little pseudo field work of my own, I found that they were all scheduled to meet at the Ritz that week.” Henri stood and stretched. “One editor said the book dealer mentioned twenty million euro as the floor of their impromptu auction. Twenty million, Jean.”
Jean’s long, thin fingers rubbed at his chin as his eyes rotated to the heavens.
“As you know, Michel-the-book-dealer never made it to the meeting.” He snatched another piece of paper, handing it to Jean. “If those diaries contain what we think, they could be worth far more than the publishing deals on this list.”
Jean stared at the paper. 12 million. 9 million. 7.5 million. All dollars. All advances for trite autobiographies of boring heads of state and faded pop stars.
And none remotely close to the jaw-dropping content the book dealer had searched for.
Jean’s knees were weak so he pulled the chair back up, collapsing in it. He grabbed a napkin from Henri’s pile and mopped his forehead.
“That’s not the best part,” Henri said.
His chest heaving, bordering on hyper-ventilation, Jean’s bleary eyes focused on Henri. “The only thing better would be your having the diaries in a box under that desk.”
“Not quite that good…but close!” He twirled his considerable mass and pointed to the screen. “Remember the videos when Hartline was seen leaving the Keisler building? They had specific time stamps on them and, I knew exactly how long he was gone each time.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jean was still thinking about the value of the diaries and the book dealer’s searches. Twenty million? Thirty million? Hitler knocked up a Jewess! If proven true, every history book, every biography, every movie will have to be rewritten!
“Jean.”
He blinked, looking to Henri.
“Each time Hartline left the building with the loaded pack, I was able to find a corresponding video…” Henri twisted his thick neck, his beady eyes beaming with pride, “…and pick up Hartline as he was exiting the U-bahn, just a few kilometers away.”
The Diaries - A Gage Hartline Espionage Thriller (#1) Page 28
