The Diaries - 01 (40 page)

Gage reread the
last line several times before closing the diary and replacing it.

Then, forcing
himself, he conjured a mental picture of Monika, smiling, radiating her love
for him.
 
He thought of the life they
were going to create; he thought of how violent her death must have been,
forcing his mind to picture a brutal rape followed by two bullets.
 
He had to see it; he had to know.
 
For ten minutes, he imagined every horrible
scene of her rape and death, and then he waited.

Not unlike Greta
in the last passage, there were no more tears.

De
Oppresso
Liber.
 
To Free the Oppressed.

An experienced
warrior, Gage knew his mind had to be right if he were to prepare for what he
planned to do.
 
He looked at the clock;
Kenny would be home soon.
 
Before then he
needed to think, to lay the first stones of what would become the foundation
for, as Hunter had coined it, his reimbursement.
 
He sat stone still on the couch, staring out
the window at the barren trees and blowing leaves, his mind hearkening back to
the simple Lutheran church on the small pond he’d attended as a boy.
 
It was low and gray, built with river stones
and surrounded by the simple farming town populated with small-town farming
people.
 
Gage had attended regularly as a
child, dutifully memorizing his verses, catechisms, and portions of the
Augsburg Confession. There was a particular verse that intrigued him then, and it
was again important to him on this day.
 
And while he knew he was taking the verse out of context, it gave him
comfort, allowing him to achieve the proper frame of mind.

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
Grafenw
ö
hr
?”

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.”