“Yes, and he will kill you for them.”
“And you?”
Marcel pitched his cigarette onto the sidewalk. “I am finished with you, sir.” He crossed his hands over one another, a cufflink catching a glint of the streetlamp. “And you with me, I hope?”
Gage nodded. The two men stared at one another for a few more seconds, with Gage finally breaking eye contact. He eased into the seat and started the car, turning onto the Avenue d’ Essomes.
He headed east. His destination was Frankfurt.
Chapter 14
Monday, November 16 – Frankfurt, Germany
The small room overlooked the alleyway that ran parallel to Wildunger Strasse. Jean Jenois had no other choice than to pay eight thousand euro for one month—twenty times the room’s worth—simply because he had a pressing need and the Polish landlady was a shrewd, conniving old bitch. He stood from his air mattress, his bones aching as he twisted the ancient radiator, desperate for more heat. Three long days and nights without a decent meal, without a drink, and without a shower were killing him. Being dirty intensifies a person’s sense of cold, and also takes a toll on well-being. And for a man who had grown quite used to the finer things in life, the effect was exaggerated on Jean Jenois. He’d endured survival school in the frigid Pyrenees, a month in the searing Gobi—and even a week in Detroit—but nothing had yet been this miserable.
On the window sill was a compact motion-detecting device aimed across the alleyway, its invisible beam bouncing from a palm-sized mirror Jean had affixed when he had decided that long-term surveillance was the only way to crack the egg. Normally, such measures would have required a team of six to eight men, but Jean had managed to keep his mission quiet, convincing Henri to cover for him in return for a cut of the profits. So since Friday, he had spent every minute of his time in this miserable space, never once leaving. His nights were restless, waking every time a garbage truck or some drunk staggered through the alleyway, thereby setting off the motion alarm. During the day, Jean would read, play solitaire, talk on the phone with his many lady friends: anything he could do to kill the monotony.
But primarily he would daydream about the purported worth of the mythical diaries.
Marcel had called several times but Jean didn’t respond. Hornet nests were best left undisturbed, and only in the event that the surveillance dragged out more than a week would Jean return that call. He lit a cigarette and kicked aside the pizza boxes and empty containers of Chinese food. Fortunately for him, two streets over on Rohmerstrasse, there was a small café that had made an exception for him, willing to deliver bread and good coffee for ten euro extra. He rubbed his oily hair as he dialed their number, remembering to tell them both coffees were to have heavy cream and be triple-cupped, so they would retain their heat.
After his awakening cigarette, he brushed his filthy teeth and washed his face. Feeling somewhat human, he smoked again as he waited on his delivery. The alley alarm sounded—not unusual for seven in the morning—and he stepped to the window to see three children passing through, the packs on their backs signifying that they were school kids. He heard footsteps on the stairs, hoping that it might be the café’s post-teen employee, the one with the round face and large breasts.
She had delivered his bread and coffee Saturday morning, making another delivery that afternoon. He guessed her heritage as Greek, or perhaps Turkish, with her full lips being her second best asset. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, wore tattered clothing, and probably hadn’t fifty euro to her name. And while he had not enjoyed a shower in days, Jean wanted her underneath him in the worst kind of way. A weekend was the outer range of his abstinence limit and, because he felt masturbation was the ultimate sign of weakness, he was absolutely on end to find release wherever he could.
A knock at the door.
Jean opened it, relief flushing over him as the girl—the one he wanted—lifted the tray and white bag. She wore a friendly smile. “Kaffe und Bröt fur Du?”
The poor girl in her immigrant ignorance could barely speak German. Jean eyed her hungrily. He had to have her. Now. Digging the money from his pocket, he decided to be frank, speaking in simple German. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Greek?”
“Turkish.” She looked wary.
“As you might imagine,” he said, handing her the money and smiling broadly, “I am very attracted to you. I have been stuck in this,” he waved his arm, a disdainful look on his face, “this…Sheissbude…for days, due to my job. And it would do me more good than you could ever imagine to spend, say, a half hour with you.” He arched his plucked brows. “I’d be happy to pay you for your time.”
The girl’s face went blank as she was apparently trying to comprehend exactly what he was requesting. Jean took the coffee and bread from her, deciding to soften the blow a bit. “You can just sit and talk if you like. You see, I am a man accustomed to beautiful female company.” Besides, even without a shower and smelling like an old goat, he was confident enough in his seduction abilities that if he could just get her inside, he, too, could “get inside”.
As she stammered for a response, the alarm went off again. Jean rolled his eyes and held a single finger up. “Einen moment.” He placed one coffee and the bread on a cardboard box, popping the lid on the other and sipping as he casually walked to the window. Before he looked out, he glanced back, happy to see she was still standing there, still smiling. Good! As soon as he checked on what had to be another false alarm, he could begin working his magic. The air mattress would be an adventure, or perhaps this Rubenesque Turk preferred it standing up?
Jean gulped at the coffee and glanced out the window, looking at the mirror, before turning to the left where a blue sedan had driven in and parked. Probably just one of the shop owners unloading something or—
The man exiting the car stiffly, only forty feet from where Jean stood, was none other than Gage Hartline. The hair was short and dark, he was tan and bearded, but Jean had memorized every feature of Gage’s being, and the profile and posture were unmistakable.
Coffee splattered as Jean dropped the cup and the cigarette, jerking the pistol from the wire shelf on his way out. He knocked the girl backward as he sprinted from the apartment and down the stairs.
And the girl, Gabriella, insatiable (and quite broke) in her own right, had thought he was kind of cute and was actually going to take him up on his offer.
***
Gage’s injury prevented him from taking a good stretch, but at least he was able to straighten his cramped legs and walk around for a moment in an attempt to shake off the after-effects of a long drive and several days straight from the bowels of hell. The frosty morning air felt good after five hours in the dry heat of the car. He lifted his sweatshirt, happy to see that there was no blood leaking from Marcel’s pressure bandage. Unwilling to take the painkillers the Frenchman had offered him, Gage had taken two Tylenol every hour, crunching them like candy to quicken their effect. It was sufficient enough to dull the sharpest of the pains. He had not yet decided how he would explain away the obvious gunshot to a doctor, but he would focus on that once he had his other identity and the diaries.
Coming back for the remainder of the diaries was something he had struggled with for the first half of the drive, but in the end he decided that he had no other choice. Without any serious money, or any place to go, it was his only chance to give himself enough collateral to possibly negotiate himself out of the situation. In addition to the diaries, the small safe in the storage area held the high-quality fake passport and his emergency prepaid cell phone that he should have had with him the entire time. Gage glanced both ways down the alley, pressing the four digits on the back door to the dingy apartments on the Am Weingarten side of the alley. Inside, rather than going up like most residents, Gage proceeded down the concrete stairs, into the basement, wincing with each footfall.
At the end of the long hallway, next to the laundry, w
ere the apartment storage units. Each one had a corresponding letter on the door, signifying the unit it was paired with. Gage’s was at the end, marked by the number two. The owner of the building had three extra storage units, charging fifty euro monthly for the cramped space. For Gage it had been perfect. Well hidden, but out in the open. In a building with twenty apartments, no one would think a thing about seeing a man occasionally coming and going from his unit with a suitcase or a gym bag. He used the small key to open the door, holding his breath as he pulled the string on the light bulb.
The suitcase was there.
Gage stepped to it, feeling the weight, wincing as just the slight tugging hurt his side. He unzipped it; the remaining diaries were stacked neatly, exactly as he had left them.
Exhaling a large breath of relief, Gage went into the safe, spinning the dial as he hurried through the five-part combination. Exactly where it was supposed to be was a Canadian passport of one Martin Jak Clawson. It had cost Gage nearly four thousand euro to get an official passport and, unlike the day he had purchased it, today it seemed worth every cent. He would keep the passport Kenny had given him, but in case that cover had been burned, he’d immediately start using the Canadian one. In his mind, he began saying his temporary name over and over.
Also in the safe was the prepaid phone. Gage powered it up, turning and looking at the suitcase, thankful it had rollers. Once the phone had a signal, it chirped three times.
Gage frowned, swiveling his head to the phone. The small digital readout showed an unopened envelope, indicating that he had a message.
“Must have been a wrong number,” Gage mumbled to himself as he held down the number one to check it. After a short delay, he listened to the message from the bartender. It had been a safety precaution that he had forgotten about in all the excitement; the bartender, in his Bavarian drawl, relayed the story of a Frenchman who had been nosing around, asking about storage units in the neighborhood.
The reality of the situation shocked Gage more than a bucket of icy water poured down his back. Jean knows the approximate location of the storage unit.
Consciously controlling his breathing, Gage stepped forward and glanced down the hallway. No one. He leaned back inside and listened to the bartender’s message again. Gage’s heart pounded as he focused on the suitcase. He would have to lug it up the half-flight of stairs and into the alley, bullet-wound and all, with the knowledge that Jean could possibly have the area under some sort of surveillance.
Sweat beading despite the cool, Gage stored the phone and passport in the front pocket of the suitcase. Just as he was zipping it, his eardrums registered a minute change in air pressure. The lower hallway was cramped and there were no vents.
Someone had just entered from the alleyway.
***
The Sig Sauer P-225 was outstretched in textbook fashion as Jean silently padded down the six concrete stairs in his calf-leather driving shoes. The hallway was narrow, packed with doors representing each storage unit. Predictably, only one was open, at the end. Dirty light spilled into the dark hallway, and Jean could hear the scraping noises as Gage readied the diaries for transport.
Feeling his mind already claiming victory, Jean reminded himself of what Gage had done to him in the storage shed. Wily. Dangerous. “Time to demonstrate to him what DGSE Agent Jean Jenois is capable of,” he thought to himself.
Jean’s eyes flicked to the hammer of the Swiss-made pistol. Yes, it was cocked, loaded with nine-millimeter steel jacketed rounds. Gage had been moving strangely after exiting the car, probably wearing a vest. A head shot would be most effective, but Jean knew it was risky. Maybe a body shot to knock him down, then a head shot. Two gunshots were a lot of noise to risk; Jean cursed himself for not thinking to bring a silencer.
The door was but a meter away. The Frenchman flattened himself against the left wall, keeping the pistol outstretched. He wanted to catch him in the storage unit, but he knew Gage could exit at any time. With one final, silent shuffling of his feet, he was there.
Jean reminded himself to breathe.
Tactical entry. Clear the room, left to right, low to high. The target will be low, finalizing preparations to mobilize. Two shots…kill-zone, concrete enclosed. No chance of the rounds penetrating walls and killing an innocent.
Time to die Gage Hartline, or Matthew, Jean thought whimsically as he knew he was about to get his payment—his just due—for a life of paycheck-to-paycheck public service. He said a quick prayer to the God he didn’t believe in, gripped the Sig with both hands, and spun into the room.
Jean’s eyes went wide and his mouth went dry. He saw the bulky suitcase; he saw the open safe.
But Gage wasn’t there.
***
It felt like someone had split Gage open with a rusty knife. He was on the small, cinderblock ledge above the door. It was only twelve inches wide and he knew, if Jean was thinking properly, that the second he realized Gage was hidden he should pull back and flush Gage out. But Gage knew why Jean had come, knew he had been watching the place for many days. His mind would be clouded with fatigue and greed and he might make a bad choice.
Gage heard a shuffling, ever so slightly. Someone was right outside the door. His heart was beating so hard, Gage worried Jean might hear it. There was a long pause, making Gage’s mind scream for air as he held his breath while his side seared with pain.
The inky black pistol appeared three feet below, and Gage saw the long, bony fingers of Jean Jenois wrapped around it. If Jean was alone, Gage knew he had a chance. If Jean had a partner, Gage was as good as dead. Steeling himself for a fight, Gage gripped the ledge and spun his right foot downward, kicking Jean’s arms to the left. He rolled off the wall, using his hands like claws to grip any piece of the stunned Frenchman that he could. One hand wound up with a collar-grip, the other pulled the DGSE agent’s long, greasy hair. Gage allowed his weight to keep falling, not lowering his legs to catch himself, and the two professionals went down in a heap, scrabbling like wild cats fighting for their lives.
As he felt his ribs cracking and popping, Gage found himself on top of Jean, struggling to get the pistol. He was using his arms to hold both of Jean’s to the concrete, and several times quickly removed his left arm to hit Jean with a hammer fist to his big nose, replacing the arm quickly so as not to lose the grip. The two men grunted and ground their teeth and, as the seconds turned past a minute, Gage realized he was going to have to do something—Jean was beginning to get the upper hand. The pain of the wound, and the loss of blood, had weakened Gage. He could only hold out for another few seconds.
Going against instinct, Gage released the Frenchman’s arms and watched as they came up to unleash the kill shot. When they were almost there, Gage stunned Jean by leaping off of him and bolting out the small door. He passed the threshold as he felt the bullet impact the wooden doorframe inches to his left, sending splinters into Gage’s face like quills from an irate porcupine.
This time Gage was ready.
From his jacket pocket, he jerked the MK3A2 concussion grenade—the exact same make and model that had killed the children in Crete—ripping the pin and tossing it inside with a clatter as the thin metal spoon left the body, starting the three-second fuse and making Gage wish he’d had more time to cook it off.
He spun violently, flattening himself in the shallow recess of the adjacent storage unit, listening as Jean screamed for his life. Knowing exactly what was coming, training took over for Gage as he covered his ears and opened his mouth, preparing for the blast and radical change in air pressure. The Frenchman was halfway out when the grenade exploded, filling the cramped space with world-ending sound and light.
It was almost as if Jean had cables attached to him, top and bottom, as the grenade vaulted him into a half-forward flip directly against the opposing wall. The blast held him on the wall for a fraction of a second before he fell onto his head, remarkably conscious. Gage leapt from the recess, grabbing Jean’s Sig and straddling
the moaning man. He took advantage of Jean’s open mouth, ramming the Sig inside and finishing off four teeth that had cracked in the impact.
“Did you give Nicky Arnaud my location when Monika died?” Gage yelled.
Jean’s eyes, both trickling blood from underneath their orbs, went wide as he began to choke.
“Did you?” Gage screamed, pressing the Sig into the back of Jean’s throat, making him begin to convulse.
“Gage! Gage!”
His own ears ringing, even after covering them with his hands, Gage could hear the other voice calling him. He glanced down the short hallway, seeing a black man with tired eyes and a bad suit, a pistol at his side, holding his large left hand out in a stopping motion. Not knowing who he was, Gage twisted the Sig in Jean’s throat and gritted his own teeth.
“He can’t hear you,” the man said loudly for Gage’s benefit. “His eardrums are busted. Look at his ears.”
Gage tilted his head to see the yellowish fluid oozing from Jean’s ear. He backed the pistol out, leaning all his weight on Jean’s stomach as the Frenchman began moaning, his mouth a rictus of shock and broken teeth.
The man stepped to Gage, gingerly touching his shoulder, urging him to stand. Gage complied. This man was a friend. Not knowing how or why, Gage’s judge of character was usually spot on. He was tall, slightly hunched, with deep set, thinker’s eyes. Someone you want on your side. Gage exhaled, feeling the tightness of the mission fall away from him as if washed away by a powerful shower.
The smell of the explosion hung heavy in the hallway. Sulfurous. Currents of air were trying to take the white haze from the space. His ears still ringing, Gage was confused, not only about what to do with Jean, but who this man was and if he was here to arrest him.
“Who are you?” Gage asked warily, the Sig still trained on Jean Jenois’s face.
“I’m on your side,” the man said with a kind smile. “And as dirty as he is, you don’t want to kill a DGSE agent. A mobster you can get away with, but not this one. Let me handle this.” The man cocked his pistol, a revolver, and pointed it at Jean. He looked at Gage.
The Diaries - A Gage Hartline Espionage Thriller (#1) Page 37
